Sunsets On Nettle Hill
by yrantho
Summary: Emmeline Whyte has returned to Stormhold to nurse her father, where she soon finds herself noticed by Prince Septimus. And she can't help but notice him. Septimus/OC, rating may change. Read & Review.
1. Chapter 1

**STORY DISCLAIMER**: I do not own any of the characters or locations associated with Stardust. Neil Gaiman and Paramount Pictures do. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

* * *

><p>Emmeline Whyte hung up the wet saddle she'd just removed and sighed. Her dark hair, also damp, was bound in a loose bun atop her head, and she brushed irritably at the strands that had escaped to tickle at her face. Turning, she picked up a brush and moved back towards her horse. Though fairly old, Briar was still a large horse, his golden coat glossy and soft. The horse belonged to her father who, as groom of the Royal stables, had been given Briar as thanks for his years of service.<p>

_And look where it got him_, she thought sadly, looking out of the window into the pouring rain. _Look where it got me._

After five years assisting a travelling physician, Emmeline had received a brief but urgent message from her father, so different from the usual rambling letters she was sent periodically. She had known something was wrong right away, though the note offered no details. Saddling a borrowed horse hastily, she had left for Stormhold at first light, leaving behind the merchant caravan they had been travelling with. The ride had been no more than a few days, but to Emmeline, unaware of what would greet her at the end of her journey, the days had been like lifetimes.

And in the small quarters above Stormhold's royal stables, she had found her father bed-ridden, feverish and looking so old. It had reminded her of her mother's illness when she'd only been a girl, and all the feelings of helplessness had come rushing back when she'd first seen him. He had refused to let the royal physicians near him, wary of their new-fangled cures. Emmeline had had to pull her confidence up to nurse him, and when she managed she did her job well.

It had been a month since her arrival, and her father was slowly but surely regaining his strength. Still weak, he could not spend so much time in the stables. Emmeline, who had spent a childhood watching her father, took over most of his duties — if only to ensure he did not. Her father was stubborn, and would not listen to her constant demands for bed rest. When he did listen, Emmeline was the only one he would entrust to his precious horses in his absence.

_And more fool me for that_.

She felt trapped here, in the stables. As a child, she had longed to travel like the tales her father told her. When he had educated her as best he could, she had found her heart won by the stories of the lands around them, the geography of the area. Though happy in the stables as a youth, she had soon taken the horses on longer and longer rides, basking in the glory of the Stormhold countryside, those untouched woods and fields, so free and open. At the age of twenty, signing on with the visiting physician had been her freedom, her escape from the tedium of serving the royal house of Stormhold. On the road she was unrestrained from court; an educated girl was less of a scandal in the highlands, who simply needed the help wherever they could get it.

And back in the stables, she was nothing again. Not a physician. Not a traveller. Just a stable girl.

She ran the thick bristles of the brush over the horse's coat, whispering gently to him as she did so.

"There we go, Briar. Nice and shiny. There we go..."

Emmeline jumped as the stabled door slammed open, the wood cracking loudly against the stone walls.

"Whyte!" came a powerful roar. The voice was harsh and clearly belonged to a man — from the sounds of it, an angry man. A horse whinnied behind him, and she heard him curse loudly. "Where's that damned groom?"

"He's not here!" called back Emmeline, angry at whoever was calling. Their loud arrival had spooked the horses, and she clicked her tongue gently to ease Briar's alarm. The horse pawed the ground nervously, but she made her way out of the stall.

"Whyte!"

"He's not here, damn it!" Emmeline snapped as she made her way through the stable. Grabbing a rag, she wiped her hands and turned to face the door.

Tall and dark, the man who stood within the doorway was no stranger. His dark hair hung in damp straggles around his pale face. His opulent clothing underneath the battered overcoat showcased the unmistakable embroidery of a Stormhold prince, with numbering detailed on the shining buttons and rich fabrics. Two rows of buttons ran down his chest, each one with tiny silver sevens emblazoned upon it. This was Septimus, the seventh son of Stormhold. And she'd just shouted at him.

"Oh, oh— my lord, I..."

A sneer curled his lips as he looked down at her. He stood at least a head taller than her, even with his shoulders hunched against the cold.

"I didn't realise it was you..." she finished lamely, her eyes firmly on her feet.

"Evidently."

Of course she knew the princes. She'd grown up in the stable housing, after all. When she was younger, she'd watched them coming into the stables, and clapped happily at triumphant hunting returns. She had not failed to notice their rapidly dwindling numbers, though, and the rumours that swept the castle had reached the stables too. And here was Septimus, one of only four princes left. The dark prince, they called him. She looked behind him at the horse, who was clearly distressed.

"What's wrong with your horse, my lord?"

He moved towards it then, one hand on the bridle and the other on the horse's strong neck. It was a beautiful creature, with an ebony coat and long, muscled legs. A touch of white graced its forelock. Now it moved nervously and blew air through its nose angrily.

Septimus, seventh prince of Stormhold, regarded Emmeline with a raised eyebrow.

"Are you Whyte?" he asked sarcastically.

"I'm here," she shrugged.

He regarded her with a long, even look, his face unreadable. Then he sighed and looked back to his horse.

"He's been whinnying since Nettle Hill. I don't know what happened."

"Nettle Hill?" Emmeline remembered sunny summer days spent up there with her father, and smiled to herself. "The sunset's always lovely from up there."

He turned back to her, frowning, and she blushed.

"I'll take a look. Hold him steady."

She chastised herself for unthinkingly giving him an order, and looked at him nervously. It was natural as a physician, when she needed someone to help her. If he was surprised with the ease at which she ordered him about, it did not show on his face. The prince complied with her instruction.

Noticing the way the horse was avoiding putting weight on its left foreleg, she resolved to begin there. Whispering gently in the horse's ear to calm it, she bent the leg and ran a hand around its shoe.

"Ah. There's your problem."

"What?" Prince Septimus leaned forward, still holding the distressed horse steady. "What is it?"

"A thorn," she flashed him a quick smile, her confidence returning with the easy diagnosis. "There's a thorn caught under his shoe. We always get this in the summer. Do you have him?"

At his nod, she grabbed the thorn between finger and thumb. The horse reared and Septimus grabbed its neck desperately.

"Easy, Wraith! Easy, boy."

"I've got it, keep him down."

The horse bucked again, and the prince cried out. When the thorn was removed the horse quietened, and the prince stroked its flank in calming movements.

"Thank you," he said unexpectedly.

She turned to him, surprised that this much-fabled prince of Stormhold —the villian of most of the stories— had even bothered to thank her. There was a small trickle of blood on his cheekbone where the skin had been scratched.

"My lord, you're bleeding!"

He raised a hand to his cheek and frowned as his fingertips came away red.

"Ah, the saddle must have caught me when he reared. It's a scratch."

She stepped forward. "Let me." Reaching into her apron, she pulled at a handkerchief and wiped away the blood on his cheek. She pulled a small tub of ointment from the pocket and smeared some on her fingers. He stood silently, so close to her she could hear his breath just above her head. He smelt like rain and wet leaves. Reaching up, she began applying the cream gently to his cheekbone. The smell of it was sharp in her nostrils, sharper than the damp smell of the prince. He winced as she pressed too hard, and hissed through his teeth.

"Sorry."

She finished applying the cream and stepped back. The area around the scratch was red and the skin shone from the rubbed-in ointment. Septimus's eyes were dark and unreadable.

"A groom and a physician," he observed dryly. "An unusual combination."

"I'm an unusual woman." Emmeline kept his gaze.

"Evidently," he repeated with a sly smile.

He looked to his horse. The large creature, Wraith, was still now, waiting for his master. Without another word to Emmeline, Septimus stepped back towards his horse and swung himself back into the saddle. He steered the horse back to the open door, where the rain continued. Emmeline met his gaze as he threw a final look over his shoulder at her; it was a strange, calculating look. Then he was gone, Wraith's hooves kicking up a wet dust from the cobbles underfoot. Emmeline watched him go.

"You're welcome," she said softly, to the rain.

* * *

><p>"Did you brush Briar, Em?" asked Geord Whyte.<p>

Emmeline looked across the room at her father, sitting with a stack of papers on his bed, and smiled as she laid a plate on the table.

"Of course I did! He was sodden, too."

Her father knocked a sheaf of papers to the floor as he moved and groaned. "You were riding?" he asked quickly, as she hurried across to pick up the fallen sheets.

"Sorry," she shrugged, placing the papers back on his bed and moving back to put down another plate at the table.

"Em, I told you not to. Not at night." Mr Whyte looked frightened as he moved the remaining sheets to the side and got out of bed. He moved to sit with her at the table. "I've told you that."

Emmeline sighed, and pushed her food around the plate, avoiding her father's eyes. "I wasn't out for long."

"It's not safe." he insisted, putting a hand under her chin to raise her gaze. "Please."

"One of the princes came in tonight," Emmeline said, pushing her father's plate toward him.

His head snapped up. "What? Who?"

"Prince Septimus. His horse was..."

"Down in the stables? You were alone?" Her father gripped at her hand.

Emmeline frowned. "Yes. It was just before I came up. I was brushing Briar, and he stormed in looking for you. His horse was hurt."

Her father was shaking his head fearfully. "I should never have let you take it on. Tomorrow, I'm doing the stables again."

"Father, you—"

"You can be on the road again, away from here. Yes, that's definitely—"

"Father!" Emmeline cut across him. "What's this about?"

He sighed. "I worry for you. That prince — I've known him since he was a lad, he's the worst of the bunch."

"Father, I've ridden with _mercenaries_. I can handle myself in a fight."

Her father was still shaking his head. "Em, that one's a bad apple. The king's sick, and the princes are dropping like flies. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him."

"Well, you won't need to throw him," said Emmeline pointedly. "And you definitely won't be at the stables tomorrow. I forbid it."

A small smile touched her father's face. "You forbid it?"

"I do." She reached for her father's hand and patted it gently. "But if it puts your mind at rest, I won't ride out at night."

"And have one of the boys in the stables with you. At all times." His voice was firm.

"But I'm not a prince!" she said exasperatedly. "I'm not exactly standing in the way of his succession, he won't kill me to get the throne!"

"I don't trust him," her father repeated. "Please, Emmeline."

She looked at him and saw him again, the old man she had returned to. She sighed.

"Yes, father."

"Thank you."

As she lay in her bed that night, Emmeline found it hard to sleep. A bad apple, that's what her father had called him. And yet, he'd been polite. Arrogant, yes. But he'd said thank you, and hadn't laughed at the idea of her being a physician. And when she'd cleaned his cheek... there had been something in those dark green eyes, something she could not quite read but was not afraid of. Something she couldn't match with her father's description of the prince.

Something she wanted to see again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _This begins pre-movie timeline, hence four brothers and a sick king. It will, however, proceed into movie events._

_Pronunciations if you like: Emmeline (eh-meh-leen) ; Geord (jord) ; Septimus (sex-ayy!)._

_As much as it pains me to admit, reviews do actually help me upload faster, so feel free to drop me a line and guilt me into working faster._


	2. Chapter 2

Panting heavily, Emmeline dragged an arm across her forehead and blew the hair from her face. Placing her hands on her knees, wary of the sword she held, she bent double to catch her breath. She wore a plain huntsman outfit: a sleeveless leather jerkin over dark breeches. Her coat lay on the ground to the side. It was early evening, and she had relented and given her father time in his beloved stables. For herself, true to her promise to ride only in the day, she had decided to come out behind the stables to practise her sword work. It was a choice her father seemed to appreciate too.

It had been a week since Septimus's late appearance in the stables and she had not seen him since. The king was still sick but no better or worse for it. Rumours continued but she had paid a careful ear to them for once: what she heard had both alarmed and intrigued her.

"He's a wrong 'un, Em, so he is," opined the matronly cook, Joane, when she'd asked. Since the death of Emmeline's mother from a fever fifteen years ago, Joane had offered a warm motherly influence to the young girl growing up. The straight-talking, hard-headed woman was often misconstrued as brusque, but to Emmeline she had been a loyal friend and confidante. What she lacked in propriety she more than made up for with her cooking skills; as outspoken as she was, the king had never seen fit to remove her from her position. In her kitchen, she held no punches on the royal household and what she thought of them.

"It's the king what's to blame, really. All out for themselves o'er this crown. And what good's that pretty golden hat done anyone?"

Emmeline had dutifully nodded, grabbing an apple from the large basket of fruit as the cook's assistant dragged them into the kitchens. After a quick rap on the Emmeline's knuckles with a wooden ladle, Joane's expression was serious again.

"No, Em, your father's right. I tell you, the less you see of them the better I'll feel. Especially that 'un."

The other gossip had been much the same. He was cold, aloof, bitter. Hard. Angry. From the serving girls, the maids and the kitchen help. There was something strange about the youngest prince, they said, something that had earned him his nickname of 'the dark prince'. But no one could tell her exactly what — there were stories, there was gossip, but no two were the same, and none were confirmed.

Emmeline pulled herself away from her thoughts and focused back on her sword. It was her father's, a heavy, sturdy weapon with a simply carved but well-worn pommel. The mercenaries on her travels had regarded her enthusiasm for swordplay as little more than an amusement, and had happily instructed her. After five years, as well as the basic childhood lessons from her father, she was definitely less than amusing with a sword. She moved quickly, carefully and dangerously — it was no secret in the caravans that she had often bested the few mercs that would still practice with her. Though she was rusty after a month occupied with the stables and her father, with every movement she felt the lessons coming back to her and she grew more and more graceful.

Taking the sword back in two hands, she steeled her grip and began a complex series of steps, slashing upwards in controlled arcs. Moving rapidly, she parried imaginary blows, ducking and diving as she did so. Sword poised above her shoulder, she spun round quickly and brought her sword against another with a resounding clang.

Septimus stood before her, his sword resting hard against hers. She jumped involuntarily back, but their blades still touched. The thin scratch on his cheek was almost healed now, the small line marring the paleness of his skin. His dark hair, dry tonight, had been pushed back from his forehead and lay in soft waves about his face. She glanced away to see his long leather coat had been tossed unceremoniously to the ground beside hers; he stood before her in high-collared black velvet emblazoned with the usual '7' insignia. _How long had he been there?_

He nodded at her curtly, and she removed her sword.

"You have good technique," he said thoughtfully, without preamble, as he sheathed his own fine sword at his side. "But your stance is wrong."

"Wrong?" she narrowed her eyes, sword jumping to hand, but then remembered herself, and continued in a more respectable tone. "How so, my lord?"

"You put too much weight on your front foot," he continued, smirking as he pointed. "It would unbalance you in a real fight."

She looked at him then as closely as she dared, and saw no threat in the man. His dark eyes were veiled as usual, although he seemed relaxed. Maybe even bored. With a heavy heart, she remembered her father's warning and attempted to steer him away.

"Are you looking for someone, my lord?" she asked carefully, sliding her own sword in its scabbard as she stepped a pace back from the prince.

He looked at her strangely, then, before a mirthless smile touched his face. "Ah. Of course. You will have been told not to speak to me." He chuckled darkly without humour before meeting her gaze again. "But you're Whyte's daughter, aren't you?"

Emmeline nodded silently as he regarded her with interested eyes.

"Customarily," he drawled, "this is where you can admit your first name."

_Customarily, princes don't talk to stable girls._ She bit back such a retort. "Emmeline," she said instead, wary of him.

Noticing movement, she glanced to the stable windows behind Septimus. Her father's anxious face peered from the window, and Emmeline's eyes widened.

"Emmeline Whyte," mused Septimus, his tone supercilious and mocking. "Groom, physician, sword lady extraodinare... Even if she'd be better putting the weight on her back leg." He noticed her distracted look and turned his head enough to notice Geord Whyte at the window.

"Apparently your father does not like me speaking to you," he observed in an even voice. Emmeline was silent. "Just nod if I'm right."

She nodded and he sighed, but touched his hand to his forehead in a sarcastic salute to her father. He moved to where his coat lay and shrugged into it, shaking his hair from where it had fallen into his eyes. As he turned to leave, he suddenly stopped and tilted his head as if thinking. He pointed to her, his eyes narrowed.

"You asked me if I was looking for someone. Would it surprise you, Emmeline Whyte, if I told you I was looking for you?" He did not wait for her answer. "Weight on the back leg, remember," he called as he left, the dark leather of his coat swishing behind him.

As soon as the prince was out of sight, her father hurried to her side.

"What did he want?" he asked anxiously. "What did he say? I saw him-"

"Father, he only wanted..." Emmeline tailed off. What _had_ he wanted? He'd only offered her advice on her stance. Yet he said he'd been looking for her... She shook her head, trying to clear the mess there. "He didn't hurt me. I think he just wanted to talk."

"Talk?" Geord Whyte scratched at his grey-flecked hair distractedly. "Talk? That's not it, Em." He glanced up towards the castle where the prince had headed and bit his lip. "That's not it at all, not with him."

Though she understood that her father was worried for her, it irked her unbearably that he would not give her a straight answer, that he would judge a man so quickly. He had been the one that had taught her not to do that, after all. "What has he done to you?"

"Eh?" Geord looked in confusion at his daughter. She stood before him, colour rising in her cheeks. Her blue eyes, so like her mother's, were full of defiance.

Emmeline had surprised herself with the force of her question, but she persisted. "What has he done to you, personally, that you distrust him so?"

Geord spluttered indignantly. "Well, not to me pers'nally, but he's..." He shook his head, and coughed embarrassedly. "He's not a good man, Em."

She was an adult, yet he continued to treat her as a child: to soften his words and and decide who she would talk to. It was unfair. It was infuriating, after she'd given up her freedom to return for his sake. And what did he do with his returning strength? Scold her and coddle her.

"What right have you to judge him?" she demanded, her voice growing louder. Out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the stable boys peer round the stalls.

"More right than you, girl." Now he was angry too, his shoulders tensed and hands balled into fists. "I'm your father. You will not speak with him again." Then his shoulders fell and he just looked old, a tired old man. Emmeline felt guilt but her anger pushed it away. "Em, I've heard enough of the stories in my time," he continued, voice softer. "Prince Septimus... he's a monster."

Emmeline stood her ground, but she saw the smile of Septimus in her mind's eye and something made her challenge her father's words.

"Stories, Father? You used to tell me stories."

She snatched up her own coat from the ground and met his gaze levelly, her voice low.

"You always told me the monsters weren't real."

Geord Whyte stood in amazement as his daughter stalked away from him, leaving him alone in the dark outside the stables. Hurried footsteps altered him to the stable boy's arrival, but he remained in his place for a while, silently staring at the place where his daughter had been.

* * *

><p>Septimus leaned against the mullioned windows of his sleeping quarters. The room was cold, as it always was, but he did not feel it any more. He heard a muffled girlish scream and his face twisted.<p>

Secundus. His vain elder brother took no greater pleasure than roughing up the servant girls, and he'd been well into his wine cups at their supper — no doubt he was as drunkenly confident tonight to try again. It had always frightened his sister Una, who had often been friends with the girls her brother preyed upon. Primus, soft-hearted as ever, sometimes managed to dissuade Secundus from pursuing the frightened young girls, but his gentle pleading fell all too often on deaf ears. Septimus remembered how Una used to persuade him to confront Secundus, for when the man was in such a mood he could only be reasoned with through steel. And Septimus was _good_ at steel. He reflected that he had not bothered his brother for his lecherous behaviour since Una had left, and he felt a small pang of guilt.

Septimus himself did not touch the servants. He was hard to them in voice, perhaps, or quick to anger when they delayed. But to touch them... Secundus was a man of such lusts; Septimus found it held no thrill for him. Those quiet, mousy girls, barely out of their childhoods... he had no interest in them. His brothers had recently expressed doubt that any women interested him, and Tertius had a bruised shoulder to testify just how well his bumbling teasing had been taken by his younger brother. Despite his coldness, his aloofness —those harsh barriers he surrounded himself with— he was not wholly unfeeling. That had been a promise to Una, before she had disappeared. The two of them, as the youngest of the Stormhold children, had forged a close bond to deal with their older brothers.

"Never unfeeling at heart, brother," she had pleaded. "Better to be ice than stone."

And he'd said he wouldn't, for her. That had meant something, at least. Stormhold princes were bred to fight as beasts, a fact Una had known well. A fact Septimus knew well. But to be king was to be a man, so he had simply distanced himself from his emotions, not severed all ties.

The Whyte girl, however. There was a challenge, there was an interest. She could handle a sword well, he mused. He would like to test that. And though she had none of the carefully-preened beauty of the court ladies, there was a pleasing honesty about her tousled hair and a striking mischief about her face that drew him to her. For a moment, his thoughts strayed and he idly wondered what would happen if Secundus attempted to take his lechery out on her. Though he knew that she should be more than able to protect herself —he had seen that much today— he found himself repulsed by the very idea of his brother near her, much less his dirty hands on her.

"Never unfeeling," he muttered to himself, loosening his hands though he could not remember clenching them.

He was a man of ice, not stone. Ice could melt. He remembered the fire in the Whyte girl's eyes and something human stirred in him. Yes, ice could melt.

A thin scream came again, and Septimus pulled himself away from the windows and his thoughts. New purpose in his step, he drew his sword and set off to find his oafish brother.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _Thank you so much for the reviews, lovelies. I don't think there is a sufficient way to describe the tiny joy that surfaces in me when I realise that my FanFiction email folder has something unread in it._

_Pronunciations are fairly self-explanatory today: Joane (joan), Reviews (yes please!)._


	3. Chapter 3

Emmeline would not apologise to her father for her outburst, and he did not ask her to. Over the next week their relationship grew closer to normal, with talk of the castle and its inhabitants limited. Emmeline was thankful for that as she continued to take on the bulk of her father's stable work while strengthening him with her herb mixtures.

She thought of Septimus often in her daily duties. She had not seen him in the stables again, though she had made a point to seek out Wraith. The horse had its own stall far from Emmeline's residence and it had nickered good-naturedly at her when she had brought it an apple. The boy mucking out its stall had watched open-mouthed as the big horse had nuzzled gently at her pockets as if looking for more.

"You've got an unlikely friend there," the stable hand had observed, shaking his head in disbelief. When she asked why, he'd shrugged. "He's a horse possessed of a foul temper, lady, like his maister."

Emmeline stroked the black coat softly and Wraith relaxed to let her, still sniffing interestedly at her pockets. The boy had shaken his head again as he'd worked his spade.

"You've sure charmed him, lady. Still, like as not when I feed him in the evenin' I'll have a bruise to show for my trouble."

As Wraith nosed into her apron pocket again, she laughed and pulled it out to show him it was empty. "All done, I'm afraid, boy." Emmeline had turned to the stable hand and smiled. "I suggest bringing an apple or two, then."

For her sword lessons, she was chagrined to find that one of the younger stable boys, Neal, had begun insisting on accompanying her — no doubt on her father's orders. She fought now a little distance away from the stables, in a small clearing before the woods began. The boy himself was harmless and seemed to enjoy watching the sessions as any eleven-year-old boy enjoyed watching the soldiers practising. Aware of this, Emmeline often took to playing up for him, pretending to slay hordes of men and beasts theatrically before bowing at his excited clapping. The exaggeration was also a good way to let loose her anger in a controlled way and she always felt more relaxed as a result.

"Alright, Neal," she smiled tiredly as he whooped loudly from his perch on a tree bough above her after a particularly impressive vanquishing. She'd been thinking of the freedom she'd had on the road, the trust others had placed in her without a thought. And now, back at the place of her childhood, where her father did not trust her. It had certainly made for some energetic swordplay. It was late afternoon and the warmth of the sun was beating down on the clearing; even the loose shirt she wore was hot and uncomfortable. She plucked at the collar and took a deep breath.

As Neal quietened she focused again on her stance, which was definitely improving thanks to the prince's advice. With the weight balanced on her back leg she could feel the difference, bouncing back on the balls of her feet in a way that allowed her quicker movement and greater agility. She smiled grimly as she sliced her sword through the air, bringing her foot up in a high roundhouse kick and finishing, panting, with her sword to the ground. Movement in her limited field of vision and a gasp from Neal caused her to look up from well-made spurred leather boots into a familiar face.

"You, boy!" Prince Septimus of Stormhold looked away from her and above, shielding his eyes with a hand. "Get down here."

Neal scrambled down the tree, quick and nervous as a squirrel, to land hesitantly at the prince's feet.

"My lord?"

Septimus reached into a pocket and withdrew a small silver coin, crouching to meet the boy's eyes. He held the coin in front of him and spoke slowly.

"You will occupy yourself away from here. If anyone asks, you were here the whole time. I was not." Neal nodded, his eyes fixed on the coin. "And if you do not do this, I will know." He flipped the coin with his thumb and the boy caught it before darting off.

Septimus stood with a flourish. Today he wore a light tunic, in his usual black. His long shirt sleeves fitted loosely and he wore a large silver-buckled belt around his hips.

"I see you've taken my advice." He nodded at her feet, expression unreadable. His hand rested on the intricately-carved pommel of his sword. "Care to test it?"

There was a strange relaxation in the prince's manner. Though his face seemed impassive to the point of dourness, there was something in the set of his body that told her he was serious in his intentions to fight her. Emmeline noticed, however, that he retained the usual arrogance in his voice, the sense of command that so many balked at.

"Do you really think you can buy Neal's loyalty like that?" she asked daringly, angry at the way he'd walked in and immediately undermined her father's authority, unwelcome as it was, by paying off the boy.

"Of course." Septimus raised an eyebrow in a bored manner. "A poor man's loyalty is as clean as the coin he is given."

And Neal was just a boy, the youngest in a large family. It was unlikely he'd ever even held one of the small silver coins before, let alone had one for his own. She could not blame him. But her father would know, somehow, of that she was certain. "My father will not be pleased. Someone will tell him."

"Do you think so? I am often told I inspire a certain silence." He smiled nastily. "Besides, I am told you have learned your father is not the pillar of truth you had once hoped."

He knew about their argument. How could he? Emmeline tried not to betray the shock on her face. Even the stablehands hadn't noticed anything amiss... "Where did you hear that?"

"I bought it," shrugged Septimus, smirking at her unease.

_At least he's candid_, Emmeline thought despite herself.

"Now," he continued, "Will you spar with me?"

She frowned, searched his eyes for some sign of deceit or trickery and found none. A little less guarded today, there was a challenge there, but no malice to it.

"Why me?" she asked pointedly.

"Do you always ask this many questions?" His voice had an edge of irritation to it.

"Only when I want answers."

An elegant eyebrow shot up and he laughed at her, but not unkindly. He looked thoughtful when he next spoke.

"You are not at all scared of me, are you?"

Thinking about it, Emmeline found to her own surprise that, no, she was not scared of him. The stories unnerved her of course, but... Monsters did not exist, he was a man — blood and bone like the rest of them. And she had a sword to fight blood and bones. A sword whose owner owed her improved stance to the prince. And there was something, something else, something that was felt rather than thought, that made her trust him. No, she was not scared of him, though she could not fully explain her reasoning. She shook her head.

"There," he nodded, his strange smile back. "That is why I would practise with you." At her frown, he explained, "You are skilled. Most of the skilled men I know are soldiers, and they will not raise a sword against their prince. So I would fight with you for no reason other than you are refreshingly insolent."

Emmeline grinned then, and meant it, forgetting the absurdity of her situation. It had been far too long since she had experienced a proper opponent to practise with. Septimus's lips quirked in a small answering smile, seemingly before he could school his expression.

"Do we fight, then?" he asked.

"If you're calling me insolent, I'll have to!"

He snorted at her jibe and waved a hand dismissively.

"Bold, then. It's refreshing nonetheless."

He withdrew his sword from its scabbard and held it before him as she did the same.

"I should warn you though," said Emmeline as they circled each other slowly, settling into a fighting stance. "I learnt from mercs on the road. It's not the cleanest tactics."

"My dear," he replied, "I am a prince of Stormhold — do you really believe I've ever fought fair?"

She saw his teeth flash in a grin before he struck, and she parried quickly.

The first few strikes she caught easily, hitting back without trouble. She frowned. She had been told the prince was a formidable fighter and though she took pride in her own skills, this was far too easy. Then it hit her.

"You're not trying," she accused, dropping her sword tip to the ground for a pause. "Don't hold back."

Septimus lowered his weapon too, and then shrugged arrogantly. "But you'll lose."

"Nobody ever learnt anything from winning," she countered evenly. "Besides, it's bad form to decide on an outcome before the fight's done."

Septimus snorted. "It's bad form not to address a prince by his proper title. And you've neglected that consistently."

_My lord. I haven't called him that since... well, I haven't called him that at all today. Is he angry?_ When she opened her mouth to speak, he held up a hand and stopped her.

"By all means, don't start now." Septimus tilted his chin at her. "We'll continue."

He raised his sword again, and this time when he struck Emmeline was pleased to note the strength of his attack: now they were both trying.

* * *

><p>"Loosen your sword arm," Septimus shouted over the noise of their blades, some way into the fight. "You've tensed it since I struck you last."<p>

Emmeline took a deep breath and felt the pain in her upper arm where his sword had hit. Though it was not bleeding, having only been hit with the flat of his blade, it was still throbbing enough to distract her. _Well, I asked him not to hold back..._

And indeed, there was nothing tentative about either of their attacks — just as he was not excusing her for being a woman, she did not excuse him for being a prince. This was not a matter of station, and he seemed to respect it for that. Emmeline relished the opportunity to spar with a swordsman of his skill and he clearly took pleasure in the challenge too. As he focused hard on his movements, he took less care in shielding his emotions and she could see he was pleased by her efforts.

She shook her right arm, loosening it as he said, and countered his attack with a strong blow. He nodded to her quickly, just as out of breath as she was. There was colour in both of their cheeks and her shirt felt even less comfortable than before. She made to unstick it from her back.

Septimus pushed forward then, taking advantage of her momentary distraction with a strong offensive that caught her off guard and sent her sprawling to the floor, sword spinning to the ground out of her reach. With an unexpected agility he was straddling her, panting, his sword tip directed at her chest.

"Yield," he wheezed, a victorious smile on his red face, "I'd have you run through in seconds."

"Before or after I turned your kidneys into ribbons?"

Septimus glanced down, and felt her dagger press harder into his back. He let out a bark of laughter as he removed his sword and hopped to his feet. He did not hold out a hand to help her up. She occupied herself resheathing the small dagger at her back before standing to face him.

"I'm willing to settle for a draw."

He smirked at her comment, but his reply was without condescension. "I confess I hope we will settle it another time."

Emmeline looked at him curiously as he continued.

"You fight well. I would do this again if you'd have me."

There was something of a genuine respect in his voice that left Emmeline without fear. She nodded to him, still a little out of breath.

"I practise here now most nights," she said, gesturing at the ground, finding strength in his calm manner. "You are welcome to try beat me."

Emmeline saw him smile at her confidence —her insolence, as he had called it— as he glanced around the clearing.

"I will find the boy and send him back to you." The prince made to begin walking off, before he turned and nodded to her in gratitude. "And thank you."

He returned to where she stood and held out a hand. Glancing down, she saw the large number seven inked there, and pushed away the stories of him that came unbidden to her mind. She saw he offered his hand in the manner of an equal greeting, his palm turned sideways to illicit a handshake, in stark contrast to the usual royal acknowledgement of a ring to kiss. She took it and shook it firmly, keeping his gaze.

Once again, she caught a glimpse of something in his eyes that intrigued her, but it was gone before he turned away. She watched his tall figure until he disappeared into the surrounding trees.

Emmeline had settled down to wait for Neal when it registered that she was still smiling. She had enjoyed the fight, despite herself. He _was_ a formidable fighter and it was good to spar properly again. Her arm twinged painfully and her smile grew wry; yes, it was good to spar properly again.

* * *

><p>At a late supper with her father, Emmeline was more than happy to lapse into silence. Geord remarked on this unusual occurrence.<p>

"Did you cut out your tongue as you practised today?" he joked. "You're awful quiet, Em."

"Hmm?" Emmeline looked up from the soup her father had made to find him watching her intently.

"You were miles away, weren't you?"

She grinned guiltily and leaned across the table to tear a piece of bread from the fresh loaf. "Sorry," she shrugged, mopping up the dregs of soup with the bread. "I was just thinking."

Her father took a quick sip from his cup. "Penny for them?"

Emmeline pushed back her chair and went to the stove where she ladled more soup into her bowl. She was starving after the testing practice today. The practice. She knew her father would never let her fight again if he knew of Septimus's presence, yet the deception of keeping it from him ate at her. She returned to the table and sat down heavily. "I was thinking about my stance."

Geord raised an eyebrow, interested. He had been a soldier before he'd taken his father's old job as groom. "Aye?"

"I tried out... I tried out something Prince Septimus said..."

As soon as she'd said it, she knew she shouldn't have - her father looked scared, then angry, and he tried to stand. "He bothered you again?" he demanded.

"No," she said hastily. Well, he'd hadn't _bothered_ her. "He suggested it that night before you... before we..."

He caught the meaning. Before their argument. Anger passed across his face as he remembered it, and Emmeline wished she'd let it be. Though she had not lied, the guilt of her afternoon with Septimus grew heavier. Her father lowered himself back into his chair and pulled his bowl back toward him, eating quickly.

"It worked," Emmeline added lightly, in an attempt to fill the silence. "His advice, I mean."

Geord grunted. "So long as it's the only advice he ever gives you." He caught his daughter's eye and held up his hands warily. "I'm an old man, Em. I'll not bring up old fights, but I do want you safe. When you're back here, you're my responsibility. And I'd have you safe."

He left the table. Emmeline, so hungry before their talk, found that she could eat no more. She pushed away her bowl and went to bed.

Before she slept, she found herself thinking of Septimus, and wondered if her father would believe her if she told him that she felt she was safe with that dark prince he mistrusted so.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_Thank you for all the lovely reviews, alerts and favourites. Since we've reached a Septimus-worthy seven reviews I'm uploading this a night early as a treat._

_Also, I just had to mention those spurs on his boots. I am unhealthily fixated with them. Septimus, you cowboy._

_Pronunciations: Neal (neel), Review (please do!)._


	4. Chapter 4

"How would you take down a— a bear?" asked an excitable Neal as they walked towards the clearing together.

It had been a week since her practice with Septimus and Emmeline had been disappointed, yet not surprised, that he had neglected to join her for any further sparring. He was a prince, after all, and she was little better than a stable girl. Even though, there had been something, a sincerity in the handshake, that allowed her to be disappointed. _Perhaps it's for the best_, she thought glumly, for it eased her guilt over her father's worries, or what little there remained of it — she knew, yet could not quite explain, that Septimus would not harm her, and justified herself accordingly. She felt guilt over keeping information from her father, but little more. Neal tugged at her shirt, interrupting her thoughts, and she looked down.

"How would you take down a bear?" the boy repeated, his eyes darting to the sword at her waist.

Emmeline smiled at his enthusiasm and pretended to consider it as they reached the clearing. "Well," she said thoughtfully, "I would hope the bear would see how naturally terrifying I am and run away without me having to fight it."

"Has that worked before?"

The voice was cultured and amused. Emmeline turned to see Septimus leaning against a tree. His arms were crossed and a smirk pulled at the edge of his lips. Straightening up, he moved towards her. Neal shrank behind Emmeline, but he jumped forward when Septimus reached into his pocket and flicked him another coin.

"Keep your mouth shut and your feet fast," he ordered, but his voice lacked its normal bite. Neal nodded and scampered away. The prince watched him go before turning back to Emmeline.

Septimus wore the same loose clothes as before, unadorned with the usual frippery of royal dress. Again, he seemed relaxed and there was less of a hardness about his expression. Emmeline met his gaze.

"Not on you, obviously."

Septimus raised an eyebrow as if surprised at her boldness, but he waved a hand dismissively. "I've overcome the terror to settle our score."

Though they bantered easily, Emmeline found her heart beating faster. _Excitement, not fear._ While she enjoyed her lone practises, her single session with Septimus had been more invigorating than any she could remember. She drew her sword and was pleased to see him do the same.

"Let's see it settled, then."

Septimus nodded, already moving to block her when she attacked. Pushed back, she feinted left; Septimus seemed to anticipate this and she cursed when he struck her hip.

"Don't try tricks so early in a fight," he advised they circled each other, looking for an opening. "Your opponent's still—"

He cried out as Emmeline dived towards him and he brought his sword up quickly to meet hers. Leaning forward, he exerted pressure on his sword and brought his face close to hers.

"—alert enough to block them," he finished, a wicked grin on his face.

Emmeline let a smile tug at her lips in response, jumping back from him. Then an idea came to her. Focusing now, she feinted left again and smiled as Septimus defended accordingly, allowing her blade, quickly changing direction, to hit his shoulder with some amount of force. She sniggered at his surprise.

"Don't underestimate your opponent's talents at ignoring instructions," she warned lightly.

The prince shot her a dark look, but there was humour in his eyes. Yes, fights with Septimus were definitely more invigorating...

* * *

><p>A little way into the fight, when Septimus's sword caught the back of her right hand, she called for him to pause so she could bind it. Normally she would not bother, but with the location of the injury she knew the blood would drip onto her hilt and make her already sweating hand even more slippery. Grateful for a chance to breathe, he willingly backed off, moving to stand a little away from where she knelt beside her bag. They were both quiet as she cleaned the shallow cut.<p>

"Might I ask you something?" Septimus's voice broke the silence.

It struck Emmeline as strange that he'd even bothered to ask. "Fire away," she said as she rooted through her bag for a bandage.

There was a brief pause, and then: "Why do you fight?"

The question was simple, yet when she looked up he seemed deeply interested in her answer. For Emmeline, the answer seemed fairly straightforward.

"To protect myself," she said as she turned her attention back to her hand. "There's always people on the road making trouble for travellers. Even here, it puts my father's mind at rest." _And my own_, she added silently. She did not mention why exactly her father worried for her, though she guessed he would remember.

"But on the road you would have been part of a convoy, am I right?" He waited for her nod. "Convoys hire guards. You spoke yourself of mercenaries."

True, but... "I don't always want to rely on others," she shrugged, winding the strip of material around her hand.

He nodded, his eyebrows still drawn together in a small frown. "I half expected you to answer like that." The prince titled his head to the side and tapped a finger against the pommel of his sword. He seemed distracted, his tone kept carefully light. "But you don't fight defensively."

Emmeline stood, picking up her sword again and testing her hand's strength. The cut nipped slightly at the movement, but it would do. When she looked at Septimus he was still regarding her thoughtfully.

"You fight with something else. An intriguing fervour, something fierce, something almost desperate."

She shifted uncomfortably under his intense gaze. He was still frowning, but it was with puzzlement rather than anger. Emmeline got the feeling he was trying to figure her out. "Do I?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

He glanced down at the bandage on her hand, but she could not read his expression. "It is almost as if you believe," he continued, "that if you stop fighting, something might catch up with you." He looked straight at her then, his expression suddenly smooth and unreadable. "You fight like you're trying to outrun something."

_I am_, thought Emmeline. True, there was nothing defensive about how she trained, and she could do far more than simply defend herself. _And there's more than a few things I'd rather have behind me..._ She shuddered slightly. There had been more, much more, to her asking the mercenaries to train her than just self-sufficiency. _How could he know...?_ She frowned at his perception and met his gaze.

"How can you see that?"

"I recognise it from someone else I know." He pried no more, perhaps seeing her discomfort. Lifting his sword again, he faced her, effectively ending the conversation. "Come. We'll continue."

* * *

><p>After the fight, Emmeline unwound her makeshift bandage and looked again at the cut. Septimus, who had won, peered at it from over her shoulder.<p>

"That's going to scar," he warned.

"I've got plenty," she shrugged. He looked at her in surprise but quickly schooled his expression. She cursed herself for speaking without thinking. _Stupid, stupid._ But Septimus did not ask anything further. Glancing up at the darkening sky, he stepped away and looked around at the forest.

"Your boy will be back soon. I will leave you here."

Emmeline looked up at him from where she sat. His tall figure looked intimidating, but he inclined his head politely. "You fought well today."

"Not well enough," Emmeline retorted with a small smile. "For all my 'intriguing fervour', it didn't help me win."

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, and then he held out a hand to help her up. She saw the seven inked there again, a reminder of who exactly she was dealing with. And yet... he hadn't been that prince. Not here. She took it without hesitation, feeling his palm rough against hers. His hand was warm as he pulled her to her feet. Facing her now, there was still something of a smile in his eyes. He shook his head slowly before turning to go.

His odd reaction caught Emmeline's attention. That smile... so knowing, yet somehow... sad. Regretful.

"Who is he then," she called out to his retreating figure, "this man you know who fights to keep ahead of his demons?"

Septimus halted in his steps but did not turn around.

"Me," he said simply.

Emmeline watched him leave, realising finally what matched them so well as opponents.

* * *

><p>The banquet hall was quiet when Septimus arrived, but he felt his stomach rumble and grabbed for a nearby chair. He had not bothered to change from his practice and knew he looked tired and rough. The servants eyed him warily but he paid them no heed, instead reaching forward for the steaming containers. He lifted a lid and sniffed hungrily.<p>

"Septimus!"

Prince Primus clapped a hand down genially on his brother's shoulder. Septimus grunted as he connected with the same place as Emmeline's blade had; no doubt it was already bruising. His brother, moving round to face him, noticed his discomfort.

"What did I do?"

The eldest son of Stormhold wore a long purple frock coat, liberally decorated with his numeral. His hair was well past greying and his face more lined than his brother's, but his eyes were warm. He sat down opposite Septimus and reached for a large plate of potatoes.

"It's nothing," Septimus said roughly.

Primus raised an eyebrow. "Forgive me, brother, for concerning myself with family."

Septimus snorted as he filled his plate with stew and took the potatoes his brother offered. "Concern yourself with the others, brother. I'll handle myself."

As if on cue, Tertius entered the hall closely followed by Secundus. Septimus noted how Tertius continually turned his neck to keep an eye on his elder brother's movements. His brothers spent their lives looking behind them. He'd once done that, before he'd learned just to run. And keep running.

"Father is asking for Una again," Secundus informed the table, seating himself next to Primus, whom he inclined his head to in greeting. He did not look at Septimus, perhaps remembering their previous encounter. Instead, he sat straight-backed as Primus made a small noise of regret in response to his brother's words.

"What did you tell him?" asked Septimus, his mouth full. Despite himself, he was interested. Secundus gave him a contemptuous look, and Septimus remembered a time in his childhood when he would have opened his mouth and shown his older brother his half-chewed food just to disgust him. Today though, he waited for an answer.

"What could I tell him?" The prince replied airily. "I simply said she was not in the castle."

"An' that's true," said Tertius, nodding, eager as always to add something to the conversation. There was a smear of gravy caught at the side of his moustache, but he didn't seem to notice it as he ladled more stew onto his plate.

_It was_, thought Septimus. She wasn't in the castle, and he should know. All those days, weeks, spent searching for her to no avail. That was when he'd learned to run, to hide. When he lost her, when he lost the last part of him that kept him grounded. He speared a piece of meat with his fork and bit into it. He thought of Emmeline then, and wondered what she ran from. Wondered what she fought so fervently against. He saw some of his own defiant spirit in her, but tempered with a carefulness that reminded him of Una. Though she smiled and conversed with him easily, he saw the timidity that struck her after she spoke, the way she quickly scanned his face as if checking for disapproval or a sign she'd stepped too far.

But what did she fear? Reprisal, ridicule? No, no. His thoughts strayed to her father, that frightened face in the stable windows. _He fears me, no doubt she fears his disapproval. _His_ reprisal, not mine. _The man had been ill, hadn't he? Primus had mentioned something about it a few weeks ago. _She fears upsetting him_. He considered the fiercely sharp and headstrong woman he saw in their fights and wondered what kept her so close at her father's heel; of course she cared for him, but there was caring and there was capitulating. Septimus thought of his own father and realised that, despite the fact there was little love lost between them, in his own way he still appealed to the king for a father's approval. But in Emmeline's hesitation there was something more, something he had not yet figured out.

When he returned to the conversation, Secundus had informed Tertius of his gravy mishap. The elder prince's lip curled as his younger brother used his tongue to clean it. He sniffed disdainfully, before his nose wrinkled and he turned to Septimus.

"You reek of sweat, brother."

Septimus shrugged, then slapped Tertius away as the man tried to sniff at him. Tertius sat back in his seat and threw his brother a wounded look.

"What have you been doing?" asked Primus, taking a sip from his goblet. "Did you injure your shoulder there too?"

Septimus pointed his fork at his elder brother. "I'll handle myself," he repeated.

Eyes alight, Secundus turned to Primus. "His shoulder?"

The bruise ached uneasily as Primus's eyes fell upon it. "It's tender, he didn't like me touching it."

Septimus cursed as Secundus's smile grew nasty. Any sign of weakness, the man was on him like a shot. He scowled back at him.

"This one?" Tertius reached over and prodded Septimus's uninjured shoulder. He squealed as Septimus slapped his hand again.

"The other one," corrected Primus.

"Oh, brother," said Secundus in a tone that made him wary, "What have you been doing?"

_Finding something that makes coming back to this castle a little more bearable_, he thought. His spars with Emmeline were challenging and he relished them. They were well-matched in prowess, though his years of experience probably gave him the upper hand. Even so, she made up for it with that fire... Septimus wondered again what exactly she was fighting against. He remembered his thoughts of Secundus's hands on Emmeline and anger rose in him. Emmeline would never come near these cretins if he could help it. She was something to be kept separate, safe.

"You need not worry," replied Septimus shortly. "If it was a plot against any of you wretched lot, you wouldn't be sitting here now."

The brothers tittered nervously, as they always did when the succession was mentioned. Septimus watched as Tertius tried to surreptitiously examine his stew. Their shared dinners had been thought up to combat poisoning: they ate as a group from the same containers, their wine came from the same bottle. All of the brothers knew they were perfectly within their rights to suddenly swap their plates or goblets with another. Servants were on hand to observe that nothing was slipped into any of the provided food and drink.

Secundus was still watching him and Septimus did not like his expression. With a haughty look, he leaned over and snatched for his younger brother's goblet, replacing it with his own. Primus frowned; it had been a long time since any brother had challenged another over the table. If Septimus had poisoned his brother's drink...

Septimus took the goblet and downed it without a word. He set it down on the table with a thump and glared at his brother. Tertius and Primus held their breath, eyes darting between their two brothers. When nothing happened, they looked back to Secundus. He paused before he spoke again.

"I still want to know where he has been."

Septimus threw his cutlery down on the table and rose from his seat. He leaned close to his elder brother; Secundus leaned back. "And I want to have a night free of servants' screaming because you can't keep your filthy hands and unnatural lusts away."

Secundus stood too, his face reddening with anger. "Unnatural? You wish to talk of unnatural? When's the last time you touched a woman, brother? When's the last time a woman touched you?"

Primus laid a restraining hand on Secundus's arm. The second son was shaking with rage, his careful composure gone. Though all the brothers knew of his drunken lechery, none dared to handle the issue in daylight, let alone in company.

"Sit, Secundus," implored the eldest prince. "We should—"

"Today." Septimus faced his brother with the memory of Emmeline's hand in his as he helped her stand. The warmth of her skin, the trust implied in the small gesture. "Today, brother." _And she touched me_.

Turning on his heel, he stalked from the room. He heard Tertius's loud whisper behind him as he left.

"D'you think that was why he was sweaty?"

And then Secundus's tight voice: "Shut _up_, Tertius."

Septimus found himself grinning as he made his way upstairs.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_Thank you for the reviews, favourites and alerts. I really enjoyed writing for the brothers this week. Not sure if I caught them particularly well, but they're a fun bunch to crawl into the heads of (and in Tertius's case I imagine there's a lot of room...)._

_Also, I hope everyone else gets as much of a kick from the idea of Septimus bitch-slapping Tertius as I do._

_In answer to _ILoveFantasty_'s question as to how many chapters I think there will be, I honestly don't know. As I may have mentioned to some of the signed reviewers, I have some chapters mapped out, and that takes me up to chapter 11... ish. But there will definitely be more to come. Hopefully that doesn't put anyone off..._

_In other news, I'm going to be uploading as I finish chapters rather than on a set weekly basis. So, at the very least I'll be uploading once a week._


	5. Chapter 5

Over the course of the next week, Emmeline saw Septimus three times. She enjoyed their spars more than anything: there were rough but they were growing to learn each other's strengths, and offering instructions to ease their respective weaknesses. She smiled as she remembered Septimus's face a few days ago, when she disarmed him within minutes of beginning. Though he had eventually won the match, no doubt spurred on by his wounded pride, Emmeline had held this small humiliation over him since.

"C'mon, boy," urged Emmeline as Briar slowed beneath her. Her father's speedy recovery had surprised her, so she had given in to his constant pleading and allowed him this afternoon in the stables. Taking advantage of her free time and the sunny weather, Emmeline had ridden out. The roads were quiet, and she took the time to enjoy the freedom of the ride.

Alone, Emmeline found her thoughts drifting back to her second spar with Septimus. Though he had made no other mention of it, she could not forget his description of her fighting. Intense, he'd said. Desperate. And he was right. She thought back five years and remembered her feelings on leaving Stormhold. And the unease she'd felt about returning. She had been running back then and she still was, in a way. How had he seen through her so quickly?

Because he saw it in himself, he'd admitted. Prince Septimus, a man who ran from his demons. It was strange to think of him in that light, yet the regret in his face told her he had been sincere. It could not be much of a life, she supposed, as the youngest prince. A lonely childhood. A lonely adulthood. What she saw of him in their spars was so different from the prince of rumour. She shook her head. _If I've learnt anything, it's to trust deeds rather than words._ And Septimus had given her no reason to fear, despite the words thrown against him.

Seeing Nettle Hill before her, she nudged Briar into a trot. The big horse increased his speed and clipped up the dirt track. She relaxed into the saddle, pushing her thoughts away. When they reached the top, she swung down from Briar and led him into the shade of a tree. The sun was bright and beat down strongly on her. Raising a hand, she shielded her eyes and looked out over the farmlands.

She remembered what she had said to Septimus in the stables, about the sunset. And the frown he'd given her in return, though his face had been questioning rather than angry. She smiled at that. As she admired the familiar view of Stormhold, movement in the distance caught her eye.

A large entourage of men were riding out; it looked like a hunting party. She saw the crowd of dogs that led the group, small tan and black ones who were usually housed not far from the stables. She strained to make them out. Scanning the colours of the riders, she caught more than just the normal hunters' green: a flash of purple near the head of the group alerted her to Primus's presence, a glimpse of red nearby announced Secundus, green paired with yellow hinted at Tertius behind them and —she squinted harder— yes, a black-clad figure at the rear, seated on a black horse. Septimus. For a moment, his pale face stood out against the black of his attire as he turned his head, but only for the moment before he turned away again.

She watched the hunting party until it was too far away to make out. It was strange, she thought, to see Septimus as part of such a big spectacle when she had become so used to their informal practices. He made little reference to his royal birth when they fought and she was thankful for that. Though she was not scared of him, neither was she ignorant of how Stormhold's succession worked. If Septimus was to be king, he would have to kill the brothers that rode ahead of him — kill or convince them to step aside. She thought of the ferocity in his fighting and knew which was more likely.

But... He was not a prince when he fought her. The man she fought had been cordial to her, even friendly. Emmeline sighed. She respected him as a fighter, but understood her father's concern. She thought of the hand he had offered, and how she had taken it without a thought; she realised then she had made her mind up about the mysterious prince on the first day they had sparred.

* * *

><p>When Emmeline arrived at the kitchens later in the afternoon, she was surprised to find Joane idle. The large woman sat on a stool next to the large table, lazily stitching some cloth in her hand.<p>

"Not like you to slack off, Joane."

Joane turned and raised an eyebrow, needle held in the air. She snorted dismissively at the grinning Emmeline and returned to her sewing.

"Says you," the cook retorted, humour in her eyes. "Gallivantin' off without a word."

Emmeline pulled a stool over to where her friend sat and peered interestedly at the selection of gaily-coloured fabrics on the table beside them. Whatever Joane was sewing looked largely shapeless, but it was a made of a blue material. The soft fabric it had been cut from had a large circular hole in it; she raised it to her eye-level and tried to figure out what Joane was making.

"I told Neal where I was going," she defended herself.

"Neal takes things in one ear and drops them out t'other." Joane huffed theatrically and pulled the fabrics out of Emmeline's reach. "Anyhow, that's the lords off on their big hunt. We'll have naught to cook 'til they get back."

Emmeline thought of the large group she'd witnessed a few hours ago and nodded. The princes' hunts were always a celebrated occasion; no doubt Joane would be working hard for the feast tonight. Glancing around the room, she noticed the pots were filled with vegetables, ready to boil when the hunt returned.

"So how's that father of yours keepin'?"

"Well enough." Emmeline pulled a face. "He's been begging me to let him back to the stables."

Joane smiled to hear it. "Sounds himself, then. Must've been some battle, though, bein' as you're both as stubborn as each other." Finishing her stitching, the cook took the thread up to her mouth and bit it in half.

Emmeline laughed. "I'm not stubborn!"

Raising an eyebrow again, Joane said nothing. She handled the shapeless blue material to Emmeline, who turned it over in her hands.

"It's a hat," she said, realising. The tiny blue hat was no bigger than her hand, and she looked to Joane in confusion. "A baby hat."

"For Daph," Joane explained. "She'll need it any day now, the poor lass is as big as a house." She watched as Emmeline ran gentle fingers over the material, and a teasing smile tugged at her lips. "What, did you think I'd made it for you?"

"What?" Emmeline's head snapped up. "What— no. Why would I need it?"

"Something you're not telling me? I'd like to think after five years..."

Anger rose in Emmeline before she could catch it. "What, Joane?" she snapped, rising from her seat. "After five years I'd forget? After five years I'd want... I'd trust—"

Suddenly Emmeline found herself thinking back five years ago; she thought she smelt alcohol and clutched her arms around her body reflexively, dropping back onto her seat, the anger dissipating. Joane's face fell and she leaned forward. Emmeline let the woman pull her into an embrace, tears prickling at her eyes.

"I didn't mean that, Em," the cook whispered as she rubbed her back in soothing movements, "I shouldn't have said it, I shouldn't have."

Though she knew Joane had only meant it in jest, the words had hurt. She _knew_ why she'd left. She'd trusted her with that, and she'd understood it. Pulling herself away from Joane, Emmeline looked down at the tiny blue hat in her hands and felt stupid for reacting so strongly to the innocent joke. She raised her eyes and smiled ruefully.

"No, I'm sorry. I'm being silly." She squeezed Joane's big hand hard before letting go. "I'm still a bit nervous about being back here."

Joane gave her a sympathetic look. "I know, I know."

"I shouldn't be, though," Emmeline said, trying a small smile. "Ask Neal."

"I don't have to _ask_ that boy," Joane said briskly, returning to a more normal voice. "He never shuts up 'bout Emmeline the soldier."

_Emmeline the soldier_. So no mention of her sparring partner. She thought back to her fights with Septimus, marvelling again at how easily he had seen through her. _Desperate, intense._ They both stemmed from hurt. And if he recognised that in himself...

Standing, Emmeline passed the hat back to Joane. "Say good luck to Daph from me. I'd best be getting back to the stables."

Joane stood too, laying a hand on the girl's arm. Her face was serious now. "Trust _yourself_, Em. I think that's where you're holdin' back." She nodded once, and clapped her hand against Emmeline's arm. Her easy smile returned as she guided the girl out of the kitchens. "Emmeline the soldier. God help us all, eh?"

* * *

><p>When the hunt arrived back in the early evening, the stables were a flurry of activity. Hunters milled in and out of stalls with their horses, the stable hands rushing to assist them. The dogs yapped excitedly among the crowd, weaving in and out of people's feet. Emmeline almost tripped over them as she hoisted a saddle over her shoulder and made her way back into the stables.<p>

"Whyte," called a smooth voice from behind her.

Emmeline turned to find Septimus standing in the stables, Wraith pawing at the ground behind him. There was colour in his cheeks no doubt from the exertion of riding, and his dark hair looked slightly windswept.

She pulled the saddle she held closer to her chest. One of the younger boys brushed past her, his arms full of bridles. He gave her a fearful look as he passed, full of sympathy, but she ignored it. Conscious of the company about them, she decided to keep their interaction formal. "My lord?"

He frowned at the use of his title, but beckoned her to follow. There was no clue in his face as to what he was thinking. Hanging the saddle up on the wall, she glanced around for her father but could not see him. _Just as well_.

Septimus walked her through to where Wraith's stall was and began undoing the buckles of the horse's headgear with practised hands. He tilted his own head at her questioningly.

"What were you doing at Nettle Hill this morning?"

She snapped her head up and met his gaze bemusedly. "How did you—?"

The edge of his lips twitched as he unclipped the bridle and dropped it to the floor. "I saw you when we rode out. I recognised your horse."

Of course. He'd seen Briar the first night they'd met. "I wasn't doing anything," she said off-handedly. "I had free time, so I chose to ride." _And think._

Moving forward, she bent to help release the straps of Wraith's saddle. The horse relaxed to let her, turning his head to nuzzle her affectionately. Septimus frowned again, stopping what he was doing.

"He likes you," he observed.

Emmeline looked up and met Septimus's gaze. She could not read much in the dark green eyes, but the surprise was clear. As her encounter with the stable-hand had reminded her, the evil-tempered Wraith was not looked upon kindly by the stable staff. No doubt this was why Septimus had chosen to unsaddle the creature himself. She grinned self-consciously.

"Well, he's not so bad as they say he is, is he?"

The look Septimus gave her was full of amusement: a smirk pulled at his lips and his eyebrows shot up before he could catch himself. He looked down, chuckling softly.

"Is he not?"

Before she could reply, a loud voice sounded from outside the stall. "Milord Septimus?"

Both Septimus and Emmeline turned. The man who had called was one of the hunters, a squat man with deeply-set eyes. He bowed his head sharply in deference to the prince. Emmeline watched as the fleeting emotion she had caught leeched from Septimus's face; he drew himself up to his full height and regarded the hunter with a careful coldness.

"Yes, Tavin?"

Tavin eyed Emmeline curiously, but did not ask. He nodded politely to the prince again. "Milord Primus asks you to meet him at the castle."

"I'm coming," snapped Septimus, turning back to the saddle, any sign of his good mood gone. "Tell him I'm coming."

Tavin moved from one foot to the other. He glanced at Emmeline again. "I'm to accompany you, milord."

Septimus let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. Heaving the large saddle from his horse, Septimus dropped it unceremoniously into Emmeline's arms.

"Here," he said tonelessly. "Settle Wraith for me."

There was nothing in his expression now, it was carefully guarded. Emmeline nodded silently and turned to hang the saddle up. Septimus stomped over the straw-covered floor and ushered Tavin out irritably. As the hunter stepped out of the stall and began walking, Septimus turned back to her.

"I'll be at the clearing tomorrow," he said quickly, little tone to his voice. Emmeline met his gaze, and he nodded once. Something flickered across his face and he glanced away. She heard Tavin's footsteps falter. "Bring your horse."

He stepped away from the stall and followed Tavin out of the stables. Emmeline hung up the saddle and laid her hand on Wraith. The large horse was quiet.

"You're not so bad as they say, are you boy?"

Wraith regarded her silently with small dark eyes, shining with intelligence. She patted him gently, before reaching over for one of the horse's brushes and beginning to groom the shiny black coat. The amusement on Septimus's face came into her thoughts and she smiled slightly. Moving to brush the horse's dark hair, she looked into the dark eyes again.

"Your master's not either, is he?"

Though the horse gave her no answer, Emmeline smiled to herself. Tomorrow, he'd said. She was sure it would be interesting.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_It took all my meagre self-control not to describe Septimus as "windswept and interesting". You're welcome._

_Pronunciations: Daph (daff), Tavin (tae-vin), Review (please do!)._


	6. Chapter 6

"Careful with your overhead strike," heaved Emmeline through ragged breaths. "Yours leaves you vulnerable."

Septimus switched to a sweeping sideways arc with a grunt and caught her blade roughly, driving it back to her. She stumbled before regaining her balance and attempting an attack of her own.

After the day of the hunt, Emmeline had come to the usual meeting spot on Briar to find Septimus and Wraith waiting for her. The prince had led her and the accompanying Neal deeper into the forest to a larger clearing where the ground was flat and even. After dismounting, Septimus had flicked the frightened Neal another coin and bid him to return within the hour.

So for their last four spars, this had been their new location. The distance from the stables gave them more privacy, and the horses enjoyed the exercise. Today the prince had arrived when Emmeline was just beginning to warm up; he had been quick to dismount and join her, dismissing Neal expensively as usual.

Some way into the fight, Emmeline caught movement out of the corner of her eye and dismissed it as Neal returning. _Has it been an hour already?_ She barely had time to consider before Septimus was pushed out of the way with a wordless shout and someone began striking at her with a sword. She parried hurriedly. The man was tall, and his strikes were confident. Tired after her bout with Septimus, it was all she could do to defend herself. She noticed he wore the blue uniform of a Stormhold soldier and looked up to meet his eyes with a gasp. They were a muddy shade of brown and she recognised them immediately. Her heart thudded in her chest.

"Arnyd!"

The soldier thrust his sword hard against hers and then let out a cry of surprise as he looked at her properly. He immediately lowered his weapon. "Em? What are you—"

"Soldier!" yelled Septimus, knocking the sword from the man's loose grasp with a single blow and pointing his own at him. The anger was clear on his face, and Arnyd shrank back from his furious tone. Arnyd glanced to Emmeline fearfully, his face registering confusion when Septimus did not disarm her too. "What fool idea was that?"

"My lord," Arnyd said hurriedly, bowing as low as the sword at his chest allowed. "I was sent on forest patrol. I— I heard your skirmish." His eyes darted to Emmeline, questioningly. "I thought — I thought trouble."

Arnyd Dall. Emmeline felt her hand grip her sword tighter, fearful despite Septimus's proximity. She thought of Joane handing her the baby hat, of her reaction, and found herself breathing heavier. She looked at him then, determined to face him. So he'd joined the army, just as he'd said he would. His face was fuller now, with a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. It had been years since she'd seen him, years since she'd left him, but there had still been hurt in his eyes when he'd recognised her. Hurt. _But no doubt fear in mine._

"And I could not deal with it myself?" growled Septimus, his blade still pointing at the soldier's heart. "Am I so inept?"

He looked furious, thought Emmeline. For the first time since they'd spoken, she felt a twinge of fear at the prince's anger. But then she looked again at Arnyd and felt her own anger rise in her, found herself enjoying his discomfort. Beer-tinged memories that leapt unbidden to her mind justified her in enjoying his terror at the hands of Septimus. _That's how _I_ felt, Arnyd._

"My lord, I—" Arnyd hung his head, his voice shaky. "I apologise. I thought you in danger."

"From me?" Oddly confident in Septimus's closeness, Emmeline could stay quiet no longer. _Show him Emmeline the soldier_, a small voice urged, _show him how strong you've grown_. She held her chin up and fought her fear. Arnyd seemed shocked at the ease with which she spoke in front of the prince. "Arnyd, you used to laugh at how easy you— at my lack of fighting skills."

"I didn't know it was you, Em," the man scowled before remembering himself, and his ears grew red. Was he ashamed? He'd never been before. Arnyd turned back to the prince and bowed, his voice still shaking slightly when he next spoke. "My lord, I did not —I would not have— I apologise."

But Septimus had been looking between the two of them with narrowed eyes. "You know him?" he asked Emmeline roughly, sword jabbing into the man's chest.

_Meet the demon I run from_, Emmeline felt like saying. Instead she nodded, but did not expand on the nature of their acquaintance. "His name is Dall, Arnyd Dall." She met his gaze and felt her breath hitch in her throat. Why was she still scared of him? "And I know— I know he is no threat." _Not to you, anyway_.

Septimus stared at the soldier again, his mouth set in a thin line. If he registered her unease he did not say. Emmeline saw Arnyd look relieved by her testament, and hated him for it. Septimus noticed it too and twitched his sword again. "You are lucky I did not strike you down, soldier," he growled. "But let us see if your luck will keep."

He turned to Emmeline. "You. You will vouch for his discretion?"

Emmeline met Arnyd's eyes. She remembered them drunkenly unfocused, full of anger and hatred. Now they were wide and pleading and confused... _Was that what my eyes looked like?_ Emmeline tried to hide her fear, before she caught a flash of something horribly familiar in the brown eyes: anger. He was _angry_ with her.

"Vouch," he muttered to her, a hard edge in his voice despite his weak position. "If nothing else, you owe me that much."

Again, Septimus was watching their exchange interestedly.

_Do I owe him?_ Emmeline thought back five years ago, of leaving Stormhold. Of the fear this man was able to produce in her, years after. _But I was the one who ran away. Maybe I do owe him_. "I will," she said guiltily, not meeting Arnyd's eyes.

"Very well." Septimus turned back to the soldier, his voice dangerous. "Get back to the barracks and speak of this to no-one." He pressed the sword harder. "One word and your luck runs out."

Nodding and apologising, Arnyd scooped up his sword and bowed to leave. Something flickered in his face and he dared a look at Emmeline, standing next to Septimus with her sword in her hand. He looked concerned for her, guilty for his earlier words, now that the prince had spared him.

It was always the same. He hadn't changed at all. Full of fury one minute, deflated and contrite seconds later. She felt her fists clench.

"You are —um— you are safe?" His head twitched towards Septimus. Emmeline, her anger rising, was going to reply furiously when she felt a restraining hand on her shoulder. Septimus grinned nastily at Arnyd.

"Safer than you," he said dryly.

With a hurried series of "yes, milord, thank you milord", the man was gone. Septimus removed his hand from her shoulder and she sat down heavily, angry at herself. This was the reunion she'd dreaded, avoided the barracks for, kept to herself for. That was the man who'd made her cry to be given a baby hat. _Arnyd Dall. _She placed her head in her hands and tried to make sense of her feelings. _You owe me that much_, he'd said... Did she?

Sensing nearby movement, she looked up and was surprised to find that Septimus had sat down next to her, and was regarding her curiously again.

"You seemed well acquainted. What is he to you?"

Emmeline rubbed her forehead and sighed.

"What _was_ he," she corrected gloomily. Today had been the first time she'd seen him since she'd left Stormhold. Five years. Five years and _he_ was hurt, _he _was angry. Septimus's voice cut through her thoughts.

"He seemed to think you owed him something."

"Maybe I do." She glanced up the the prince, wondering why he was even bothering with this casual conversation. He seemed distracted, his sword forgotten on the ground beside him. "Why do you ask?"

He spread his hands. "I am curious."

She frowned, but then remembered his earlier words. "Why did you say I was _safer_? Why not safe?"

Septimus raised an eyebrow. "Are you safe, then?"

There was more to the question than his easy tone implied; she could read much that in his face. It was a loaded question, and yet she could answer it in a heartbeat. _Yes_. At least, she thought so. He sat silent waiting for her reply. A question came to her then, one she wanted answered before she replied herself.

"Do I have reason to fear that I am not?" she asked carefully.

He met her gaze evenly. "Probably."

"I'm safe." Septimus frowned, not understanding. "Or safe enough. You could have lied there, and said 'no', but you told the truth."

Something in Septimus's face relaxed, but he quickly hid it. There was silence between them for a minute.

"Did he lie to you, then?" He was not looking at her. "That soldier?"

It was an easy observation to make, having seen her obvious unease with Arnyd, and her defeated reaction. She considered how to reply. He had still not looked at her.

"No. No, I think I was the one who lied, for a long time." As Septimus finally looked at her, his brows furrowed, she continued quickly. "Or didn't understand the truth, at least, until too late. And it hurt him. And then it angered him."

"And what was the truth?" Despite himself, the prince sounded interested.

She met his gaze. "I didn't love him."

Septimus nodded slowly, and something made her go on.

"We were childhood friends. When we courted, it took me too long to realise nothing was different — I only loved him as a friend. And the friend I knew disappeared when he drank." Emmeline paused, remembering the strong-fisted fiend that had become so familiar to her in the last few weeks of their relationship. She shook her head, wishing she could forget. "He was going to ask my father for my hand. My father loved him like a son, he'd have agreed in a minute." She moved uncomfortably. "It was an awkward time to realise I did not feel for him as he felt for me."

Emmeline remembered just how awkward. She put a hand to her ribs reflexively; though they had long since healed, she could clearly recall the pain and bruising. The gesture did not go unnoticed by Septimus, though he did not comment.

"And he will not forgive you?"

"He was upset," Emmeline shuddered as she remembered how Arnyd dealt with upset. "And I left for the road soon after — the little we said was spoken in haste."

"So you ran," observed Septimus.

Again, he surprised her with his perception. She wondered when he'd figured it out. "I ran," she confirmed. "Now it seems the upset I ran from has festered into a worse anger."

"And you feel guilty," concluded Septimus. She nodded, hating herself for it. Why did she feel so guilty still? Septimus was regarding her thoughtfully as she picked at the grass in distracted movements. "For speaking truly."

"You make it sound so noble," she said, pulling her knees to her chest and resting her arms on them. "It still broke his heart."

Septimus snorted. "Then he had a weak heart. He did not deserve you if he could not respect your truth."

Emmeline looked at the prince. He seemed distracted by the encounter, and she had never heard him speak so freely. As for herself, she had never spoken so honestly of she and Arnyd's situation, except to Joane. Her father had no idea of the extent of Arnyd's upset as she could not bear to tell him. Joane had figured it out, however, and had helped her sign on with the healer, helped her to run away.

And she _had_ ran away. Of course, being part of the convoy had given her the freedom she longed for, the travel, but it had also been distance. Far from Arnyd, far from upset, far from heavy hands and insincere apologies. Then there had been the mercenaries, so quick and careful and dangerous, and she had vowed not to be weak. Vowed to fight, vowed not to get hurt again. But then seeing him today, and that anger in his eyes. He still made her frightened. Had she really grown at all, or was she just kidding herself?

Pushing away that troubled thought, she searched her feelings and found she did not feel uncomfortable talking it over with this uncharacteristically familiar Septimus.

"He didn't deserve me because of what I did to him," she said, hating herself for saying it even though it was true. "Whatever he was, I'll always feel guilty for that."

"Guilt makes you weak," snapped Septimus, and she remembered exactly who she was speaking to. He seemed to realise his error and his voice softened. "Yours is misplaced, which is worse. Feeling guilty for something not within your control does you a disservice."

He spoke with experience, she could see it in his face. And his words seemed carefully picked. When she looked at him, something in his eyes told her that he had guessed at what she had not said. He knew what Arnyd had done to her and he was trying, Emmeline realised, to make her feel better. And in his own, inimitable way it was working. _Maybe I just needed someone to say it_, thought Emmeline. _Someone to hear it and see I was not wrong._ She smiled gratefully at him.

"Thank you," she said truthfully. He nodded awkwardly and spotted Neal on the edge of the clearing. He stood to leave.

"Incidentally," he added with affected casualness. "You are safe."

She looked up at him and smiled wryly. "Safe enough."

"No, safe," he insisted. "I should have said safe."

Emmeline thought of his hand on her shoulder as she watched him leave.

* * *

><p>Septimus did not go straight to the castle. Instead, he made his way to the barracks, the soldiers parting to let him past. Of <em>course<em> that was what she was running from. That stupid, foolish man, who'd obviously raised his hands to her, the bastard. It was weak men like Secundus who did things like that, and it reminded him of Una's fear. A fear that he'd seen in Emmeline's eyes too. It made him angry, made him furious. And she still felt responsible.

"The soldier Dall," he snarled to the sergeant on guard, who bowed so low his large body almost keeled over. "Where is he?"

"D-Dall?" stuttered the confused officer. He checked a sheet in front of him. "My lord, I think he's at the mess." He almost fell over himself clambering to his feet. "My lord, will I take you there?"

"Leave me. I can find it myself," he muttered.

He knew where he was headed, of course. As a child, he'd loved being in amongst the hustle and bustle of the soldiery, the laughter and camaraderie. He had not been recently, though, and the looks he got were less than favourable. The soldiers who passed him on his way were quick to salute, but he did not acknowledge them. When he reached the mess, the first men who saw him were silent and soon the whole tent had quietened. A sea of faces regarded him uneasily. An older officer with a bowl of food stepped forward.

"Might I help you, my lord?" he asked respectfully.

"I would speak with Arnyd Dall."

The officer turned around, his eyes searching the tables. There was a commotion at the back of the room and Arnyd was pushed to his feet. He looked terrified, and there was something spilled on his blue tunic. _Pathetic_. The officer marched him back to Septimus, who did not speak. He waved the officer away.

"My... My lord?" he said breathlessly.

Septimus bid him to follow and walked him to the edge of the barracks where he was sure no-one would hear them. Arnyd was quick to talk.

"My lord, I swear I have told no-one, I swear—"

Septimus withdrew a dagger from the inside of his coat and Arnyd's eyes widened in fear. Septimus smirked to see it; the man was positively awash with terror. As he'd no doubt made Emmeline feel. But here now, he was so weak, so meek. How had Emmeline thought for a moment that she'd loved him? How had she thought for a moment that he deserved her?

"My lord—"

"Quiet." Septimus flicked the tip of the blade with a finger and appraised Dall in silence. The man was shorter than him by an inch or so, with cropped brown hair that sat untidily atop his broad face. His muddy brown eyes, though frightened now, looked intelligent enough. He pointed the dagger at them. "You will do something else for me."

"Of course, my lord, I—"

Septimus cut him off with a look. "The Whyte girl," he ordered. "You will find her tonight and tell her you forgive her for what happened between you. Tell her you were wrong for what you did." He pressed the dagger closer, until the tip was resting exactly between the man's frightened eyes. "_Apologise_," he hissed.

Arnyd was frowning in confusion now, the tips of his ears reddening. Septimus could not help but enjoy his discomfort, feel a sick sense of retribution for Emmeline. This was what she feared, not her father's disapproval. Because her father had approved of this one. No, her fear was a result of this man. And he _hated_ him for it.

"My lord, I—"

Septimus twitched the dagger, seeing a small bead of blood jump onto the blade and feeling satisfaction in the small hurt. "You will do this with those exact words. Do not mention this talk. You will tell her you forgive her."

Not that she should need to hear it. Not that the fault lay on her side. But if it calmed her fear, it would be worth it. He'd said she was safe with him, and he'd meant it.

Arnyd finally nodded and the dagger was withdrawn. Septimus glared at him, venom clear in his face. "You will do this tonight, and then you will not speak to her again. It is important." The prince waited until Dall had nodded hurriedly. He regarded him for a moment more, and anger rose up at the thought of this man hurting Emmeline. Without thinking, he grabbed the man's hair in one hand and moved the blade to his neck.

"You are lucky, I said. Lucky I have such a steady hand," he spat in the man's ear. "But touch her again, and next time I swear my hand will slip." He pushed the man away, careful now to keep his temper in check. _Dead men can't apologise_. He nodded at him sharply, a snarl on his lips. "You may go."

Septimus watched as the soldier hurried back to the mess tent, glancing back behind him as he went. _A foolish man_, he mused. _A foolish, petty man._ Satisfied with his actions, he turned on his heel and made his way back to the castle, ignoring the fawning of the guard sergeant as he passed.

He thought of Emmeline again and found himself curiously elated. So the Dall fool would forgive her, and maybe she could forgive herself. Her guilt was misplaced. She was not a weak woman, but today she had crumbled. He hoped Dall's apology would go some way to easing that.

Septimus did not once consider that the true power to ease her pain might be his.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_Angry!Septimus is the best kind of Septimus to write. Especially angry!vengeful!jealous!Septimus. Hope you all enjoyed it. I've been sorting out chapters and I can exclusively reveal that this story is in no way conforming to the one I had in mind when I started. But I think that's for the better. Anyway, we'll see._

_As ever, huge, huge thanks to everyone for their support —whether it's by favouriting (is that even a word?), putting the story on alert or taking the time to review. All are very much appreciated and spur me on to write._

_Pronunciations: Arnyd (ar-nid), Review (please do!)._


	7. Chapter 7

"Like as not he saw sense, Em," said Joane as she laboured over the dough she was rolling.

It had been a few days since Arnyd's sudden apology, but Emmeline was still confused by it. The anger she had seen in the clearing... It had looked so raw, so fresh... And then that night he'd sought her out and he'd apologised, forgiven her. It had scared her when he appeared so suddenly in the stables, but he had kept his distance and spoken quickly and quietly.

"I'm sorry," he'd said. "I shouldn't have— you didn't deserve it. I was wrong."

There had been something sort of... sincere in it, at least. Something different to the long-ago apologies she'd been given as the bruises started to form. But it hadn't made sense. She'd asked him to leave and he'd complied without argument. _That_ wasn't Arnyd. Joane, who had heard plenty of tavern tales about Arnyd and as such had always respected Emmeline's decision, thought he'd simply come to his senses.

"It doesn't add up though, Joane," Emmeline insisted. "He was always so stubborn."

"Was," said the cook lightly, dusting flour from her hands.

"What?"

"Was," she repeated. "You were gone five years, remember. People change."

Emmeline nodded, though the explanation did not sit easy with her. Do people change in an afternoon? She did not think so. Joane handed her a bowl and a ladle, instructing her to stir the mixture.

"Anyhow," continued Joane, "He might've just been shocked to see you that day."

"I wondered about that," admitted Emmeline, whipping furiously. "I'm not sure if he knew I was back before then."

Joane did not look up from her rolling. "He knew."

"How do you know?"

Joane turned from the table and regarded the young woman with an odd look. There was pity in her face, and something else, something hidden that made Emmeline frown. Joane had never hidden anything from her before.

"A few nights before you arrived, he went to see your father. One of the lads had told him you'd be comin' back. Truth be told, I think he wanted your father's blessin' to try win you back."

Her father had said nothing of this. "And?"

Joane turned back to her rolling. "And what do you think? Your father told him you'd said no 'cause you'd meant no."

He'd said _no_? But all this time, treating her like a child... Emmeline put the bowl down and walked round to where Joane was. The woman looked wary.

"My father loved him like his own son, Joane. You know I never told him what Arnyd was. What he did. Why would he say no?"

"People change," the cook repeated, though Emmeline did not know whom she was referring to. She thanked Joane for her words and bid her goodbye soon after that, still thinking over what had been said and, perhaps more, what had not been said.

* * *

><p>"I sometimes regret giving you advice, you know," said Septimus, hands on his knees to regain his breath. He watched her as she pulled herself to her feet and bent to snatch up her sword. Two days after her talk with Joane, she had come out to the clearing to find Septimus waiting. After cordial greetings, they had drawn their swords: their last meeting was not mentioned. They had settled easily into their usual fighting routines, interspersing their attacks with tips and advice. And apparently Septimus was not pleased with something he'd taught her.<p>

She looked up to see him rubbing his forearm, where the black shirt showed a darker spot. He pushed his sleeve up to reveal a red cut where she'd caught him earlier. It was not badly deep, but it was still sluggishly leaking blood.

_I should feel awful about that_, thought Emmeline. _I should be punished for harming a prince. I should be... _No. He was her opponent. Injuries were part of the training, and she had never bothered before about her opponents' ranks. Now was not the time to start.

Nonetheless, Emmeline smiled apologetically as she sat down heavily on the warm ground beside where she'd tossed her bag earlier. She lifted the flap of her bag and withdrew a clean cloth and the small tub of ointment, something she took to all of their sessions, while gesturing Septimus to sit with her. He knelt next to where she sat.

"When did I do this?" she asked as she gently dribbled water on the cut and cleaned the pale skin around it.

Septimus screwed up his eyes as if thinking. "It might have been after you kicked me in the gut and took advantage of my surprise to lash out desperately in the hopes of hitting me." There was laughter in his face; he so often forgot, or did not feel the need, to school his emotions even after their fights.

It was still slightly strange to see him so open, so different from the stories that made their rounds. Though she was rapidly forming her own opinions on this mysterious man, she could not quite put the stories out of reach. They lingered in her head, making her want to govern her tongue or run. It was only through focusing on him as a swordsman, a man who had comforted her, that she could continue with a verbal spar.

"That was a considered attack, I'll have you know," she defended. In all actuality, she herself had been surprised at the opening and had indeed taken the opportunity to attempt to gain the upper hand. Her anger at Arnyd had probably contributed in some way to her desperation, allowing her to break through Septimus's usually excellent defences.

"Of course it was," he placated her as she took his wrist in one hand and used the other to rub in the ointment into the clean wound with the cloth. "I myself considered it quite frantic."

She pressed the cloth harder on purpose and he hissed, before laughing as he caught the intent on her face.

"A physician and a fighter," Septimus mused as he stared tiredly into the darkening sky. "I still say it's a strange combination."

She looked closely at him then, his eyes half-closed as he gazed upwards. The tension usually in his face was gone, leaving an odd sort of relaxation. He was a handsome man, Emmeline found herself thinking suddenly. With his strong features and dark eyes, there had to be more than a few ladies of court interested despite the stories. Hell, maybe even because of the stories. When he turned, sensing he was being watched, Emmeline let go of his wrist and turned back to her bag for a bandage, hiding the blush that had risen to her cheeks.

"Not really," she shrugged in answer, rooting through the bag distractedly. "People are always going to fight. People are always going to get hurt. Seems foolish not to be skilled at both."

He regarded her oddly for a moment, a small half-smile lingering at the corner of his lips as she wrapped the bandage without meeting his gaze. Finally he shook his head.

"It's a strange sort of logic, but I can't argue with it." She patted his arm to show him he had finished and he glanced down at the neat bandage before getting to his feet.

She smiled back at him, and something clicked. None of the stories mattered. As she'd told her father, the monsters in stories were not always real. Monsters were formed from deeds, not words. Arnyd was a monster, he was something to fear. But Septimus was not the man the stories claimed, not here. Here, she had someone else — here he was not a prince, not a villain. Here Septimus was a fighter, a teacher, and maybe even a friend. Here she had a man the people of Stormhold did not know and would probably never know. And she _liked_ him. Emmeline nodded and pulled herself to her feet.

"Keep that bandage on tonight. If you come here tomorrow I'll look at it again."

He bowed sarcastically at her order. "Yes, ma'am." He was turning to leave when she spoke again.

"Arnyd came to see me a few nights ago."

She kept her expression carefully blank, and saw Septimus's eyes rove over it when he turned to her. He tilted his head questioningly.

"The day he met us in the clearing. He came by in the evening — he forgave me, and apologised."

Septimus raised an eyebrow. "I see. And does it quieten your conscience?"

Emmeline tried to read his face, but it was now as sealed off as her own. Tentatively, she let down her guard and he saw the guilt, the pain, the worry, the fear, still so clear on her face. "Not really," she admitted. "I can't help but think he did it for some reason I can't quite figure out."

"You have the mind of a cynic," he commented lightly. "But the conscience of a priest. The apology was well-deserved."

"Then why do I still feel guilty?" she pressed, moving closer to him. He looked down at her, his eyes careful.

"I would not let a fool's indecision weigh so heavily on your mind. Dall has forgiven you, you must forgive yourself."

Emmeline shook her head. "I was afraid you'd say something like that."

"Something like what?"

She smiled crookedly. "Something so reasonable that I couldn't argue with it."

"You surprise me," he said with a small answering smile. "I have no doubt you could argue with the stars themselves if the fancy took you." Chuckling, he left, throwing a lazy wave over his shoulder.

She smiled to herself as she settled down to wait for Neal's return. As she mulled over Septimus's words, a thought rose unbidden in her mind: a memory, clear and welcome, of her fingers against his warm skin as she cleaned his wound.

* * *

><p>"Pass that brush will you?"<p>

Emmeline stooped and grasped the brush her father had pointed at. She handed it to him and folded her arms across her chest. Geord began to brush Briar's coat, but paused as he saw how preoccupied his daughter was.

"What's on your mind, Em?"

His voice was concerned: she'd been quiet these last few days and it had worried him. Emmeline met her father's gaze.

"Do you still hear from Arnyd Dall?" she asked with feigned casualness.

Geord turned and sighed, setting down the brush and beginning again with a larger one. "You've been speaking to Joane, haven't you?"

Emmeline frowned and leaned back against the stall gate. "How'd you know?"

"I hear all," grinned her father, tapping the side of his nose. His face grew serious. "No, Em. Arnyd's not the man you left behind five years ago."

Maybe this was what Joane had been hinting at. She leaned closer.

Geord sighed, seeing her avid expression, and put down his brush. "You always were one for a story, weren't you?" He seemed to remember their recent disagreement and hastily continued. "Couple of days before you got back, Arnyd came to see me. He was drunk, and he'd heard you were coming back. I was in my bed, feverish, so I don't remember the half of it. He was so drunk I doubt he does either. But he kept asking for his dowry." Geord shook his head regretfully. "He went through the drawers, everywhere, shouting for his dowry."

That was an Arnyd that Emmeline could recognise. That was the Arnyd she'd left behind, the one her father had never known. Yes, she could certainly put those actions to the angry-eyed man she'd seen in the clearing. "Joane said he asked for my hand."

Geord nodded sadly. "He told me he'd win you back and he'd take his dowry. 'Course, I told him he'd do no such thing. One of the men down here heard the shouting and took him back to the barracks." He paused, sighed again. "No, Em, he's not your Arnyd Dall no more."

"He never was, father," Emmeline said softly. "He was weak for drink when we were courting."

Geord rubbed a hand across his face, and again Emmeline saw the tired old man she'd returned to. No wonder he tried so hard to protect her. Arnyd had scared him so. It made sense now, how he'd been so protective when he saw Septimus speaking to her. The stories of the prince were well known, he was simply trying to protect her from further hurt.

"I'm sorry, Em." He smiled sadly and took her hands. "I never saw it then. I think I was blinded by the son I wanted to the daughter I already had."

She let him draw her into an embrace and she felt a little of her guilt over Arnyd leave her. She thought of Septimus, how he'd said she must forgive herself. That was certainly easier when she heard of Arnyd's treatment of her father. She was angry at him now, for his no doubt guilt-driven apology that should have gone to her father rather than her. Geord felt her tense against him and pulled away. He smiled kindly at her, his hands still wrapped around hers.

"I hope you don't think me too much of a fool, Emmy."

_Emmy._ When she was barely thirteen she'd told him she was too old for that, but now she welcomed the feeling behind it.

"Nor you, I, father," she said, squeezing his hands. They stood for a moment in companionable silence before her father dropped her hands and chided her animatedly, returning a little normalcy to their situation.

"Come on then, grab a brush. Briar's coat won't unknot itself."

She grinned, skirting around the horse and handing her father the brush he'd set down. As she ran her hands over the rich coat, she found herself thinking of another horse, and its owner whom she thought she might just be able to fathom.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _Thank you again for the reviews, favourites and alerts. _

_Also, anyone notice "Septimus's strong features"? Or should I say... "Strong features"? Well, it gave me a giggle._


	8. Chapter 8

"Is it this one?"

Emmeline raised her head and looked at the leaf the young girl held out to her. Rounded and green, with reddish splotches, it looked almost exactly right. Although...

"No— look at the spots, Merrin. Are they even?"

Merrin glared at the spots on the leaf and let out a put-upon sigh.

"_No_."

"And if they're not even...?" Emmeline prompted.

Another sigh. "If the spots ain't even, the leaf's worth leavin'," recited the young girl. "I _know_. But I can't find it."

At fourteen years old, Neal's older sister Merrin had very little of her brother's patience. Small in stature like Neal, they shared the same dirty blond hair but had personalities that were worlds apart. Usually Merrin was needed in the kitchens, but today Emmeline had enlisted her help to gather a few of the herbs she wanted. The girl threw the leaf down on the ground and wandered off. Shaking her head, Emmeline followed her.

"Bizzy would love you, you know," she teased.

Bizzy was the healer Emmeline had signed on with five years ago. Tall and dark-skinned, Bisula was gifted with the power to heal. Clever enough to know what broke ribs and hearts at the same time, the healer had been more than happy to take Emmeline on as her assistant, teaching her all about the herbs she now searched for. They had become close, Emmeline remembered with a smile. Bizzy had never been one to pry and she had respected that immensely. And though she had none of Bisula's magic skill at healing, in their five years together Emmeline had soon learnt to bind a wound as well as some of the best physicians and brew herb mixtures that matched any of Bisula's own. Something she was very thankful for when she had received the message of her father's illness. This afternoon they were looking for mottled cureroot, a small non-flowering plant whose leaves could be stewed to aid pain relief.

Merrin turned and stuck her tongue out. "I don't care," she said petulantly. "I'm not going to be a healer anyway. I'm going to be a cook."

Emmeline smiled. Ever since she was small, Merrin had been eager to follow Joane's lead in the kitchens. Though she and Neal's mother was a dressmaker, Merrin had little patience for the long hours of stitching involved. She had a talent for cooking, however, one that won praise even from the hard to impress Joane.

"Well, you're not in the kitchens today," retorted Emmeline, sticking her own tongue out in response. "You're in the woods, and we're going to find this leaf."

"Slave-driver."

Suddenly a flash of red in the undergrowth caught her eye. Moving forward, Emmeline pulled back some ferns and uncovered a small patch of colourful mushrooms. She cut one with her dagger, careful not to touch it. The stalk was covered in small bulbous growths. Feeling Merrin peer over her shoulder, she quickly stood up.

"Don't," she warned. "They're poisonous." She pulled the girl back to the path. "Let's keep going."

After about an hour, in which both Emmeline's bag and Merrin's basket filled considerably, Merrin's already short patience was definitely waning.

"I'm _bored_, Em."

Emmeline, tucking some grasses into her bag, went to the girl's side and threw an arm around her small shoulders. Merrin groaned dramatically.

"Come on. This has got to be better than being in a sweltering kitchen."

Shrugging, Merrin swung the herb basket at her side. "Even Joane doesn't work me this hard."

Emmeline laughed, pulling the girl closer affectionately. She liked Merrin, with her typical teenage fondness for exaggeration. Having no siblings of her own, Emmeline had always treated Merrin as a little sister. Their five years apart had been hard, but the fourteen year old Merrin was still, at heart, the same little nine year girl old she'd left.

"Well, I don't believe that."

As they walked on, Emmeline spotted a familiar bush a little way off. "What's that one, Merrin?" she asked, pointing. The girl tilted her head to the side and considered it.

"Bindweed," she answered after a few moments. "Isn't it?"

Emmeline nodded, clapping her shoulder lightly. "Well done. Looks like we'll find some use for you yet," she joked, pushing her to collect some of the leaves.

Bindweed, as the name suggested, was a common enough sight in the woods. The leaves of the bush were used on bleeding injuries to prevent infection, and Emmeline always had a fair amount kept handy in her bag. Lately she'd run short however, so it would be good to stock up. She smiled as she remembered where her bindweed supplies were going.

Her spars with Septimus. Mostly she had to apply the bindweed to herself, but yesterday she'd scored against him. Suddenly she remembered the feeling of her hand against his bare skin, and blushed at the memory. The brief contact had left her feeling so strange... Almost light. Elated. Despite the fact that her five years as Bisula's assistant had made for plenty of touching bare skin, men or otherwise. But with Septimus it was different. Now, all of a sudden she was very aware of Septimus as a man, a handsome man. She felt her breathing hitch as she considered it. Was it possible she...? No. No, the very idea... She pushed away the thought, but she was still blushing when Merrin returned.

"I picked the biggest ones—" The young girl stopped short as she noticed Emmeline's colouring. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Emmeline breezily, taking the leaves from the girl and packing them into the bag that hung at her hip. "Let's find some cureroot and we'll be done."

Now Merrin was grinning widely, all traces of her earlier boredom gone. "You were blushing," she said gleefully, "What were you thinking of?"

_Who._

Emmeline shook her head, but the blush continued to burn. Trust Merrin to notice. And now that it had been pointed out, it refused to settle. Fighting to keep the heat from her cheeks, Emmeline strode on.

"Come on, Em," whined Merrin from behind her. "I tell you all _my_ secrets."

"All your secrets?" she echoed disbelievingly. "Merrin, you told me last week when you broke a bowl by accident." _Keep your voice light, keep your voice light_. "Joane had already told me the day before. It was hardly a _secret_."

Turning, she saw the girl's eyes widen. "So there _is_ a secret!" She clapped her hands delightedly, every inch the gossip-loving teenager. Maybe it had been easier when she was younger. "Now you've got to tell me. I won't tell anyone, Em. Cross my heart and hope to be boiled alive in one of Joane's cooking pots."

"Don't give me ideas, Merrin," warned Emmeline lightly. "Come on. Cureroot."

Merrin followed her, but could not keep the grin from her face. Emmeline felt the colour slowly leave her cheeks, but the new feeling when she thought of Septimus was not so easily dismissed. Was there, as Merrin put it, a secret to be hidden? She did not know herself, not fully. She could not deny that she admired him, enjoyed his company, but she knew that could not be it. This new awareness of him, the sensation the thought of him created in her... No. It was silly. She couldn't possibly... _But if I do..._ She bit her lip.

No. There was no use thinking over it, not now. It could simply be a fleeting admiration, an appreciation of him as a man. There did not have to be anything deeper to it than that. In any case, she would know soon enough. All she had to do was look at him, and she'd know.

* * *

><p>Septimus rubbed his arm as a twinge of pain shot through it. He had kept the bandage on as ordered and the wound seemed to have sealed up well enough. It was not deep, but it was still uncomfortable. He'd go to the clearing and get Emmeline to take a look at it, like she'd offered. It would be impolite to refuse that offer, he justified himself. He did not let himself consider the blush that he'd seen yesterday or the unexpected warmth he'd felt at that response.<p>

He was glad that she seemed to have accepted Dall's apology. Though the required deception in attaining it was by no means perfect, she deserved the peace it might bring her. Dall was a coward, and she deserved to be rid of him. She deserved more.

When Septimus arrived at the clearing on Wraith he was surprised to find it empty. Somewhat disappointed, he wondered where she was. It was late afternoon so he was not particularly early, and she'd definitely told him to be there. _Is something keeping her?_ He decided to return to the stables to see if he could find her. In case she was on her way, he headed down the route Emmeline normally arrived by.

The weather was surprisingly mild and he enjoyed the quiet ride. He was not too far along the track when he heard voices; slowing, he led Wraith in their direction. The woods were usually deserted at this time.

Turning the corner, he saw her. Emmeline. So this was where she'd been. He tried to see what she was doing, curious as to what had kept her. Kneeling down with her back to him, she was cutting at something on the ground before her. He stopped Wraith close enough that he could just hear her, but not close enough that she heard his approach.

"See, you need to cut for the root," he heard her explaining gently. "Not the stalk. It's more potent that way."

She was speaking to the young girl who stood next to her, a basket in her hands. The girl nodded, but he saw her rolling her eyes. Mid-roll, the girl saw Septimus watching and let out a small gasp. It was enough to make Emmeline look up from the plant, and her eyes widened in surprise as she recognised the rider.

"Good afternoon, Whyte," he greeted smoothly, nudging Wraith forward.

He saw something flicker across her face, something more than just her initial surprise. He frowned slightly, but she quickly schooled her face. _She's almost as good at that as me_. He watched silently as Emmeline handed her dagger to the girl and told her to continue with the plant. "The root, remember," she repeated, before walking over to meet Wraith.

As Septimus pulled to a stop, Emmeline laid a hand on the horse's warm neck. Wraith leant into her touch, and he watched as she smiled gently. When her blue eyes finally met his, Septimus could not deny the sudden warmth he felt. _Yes, she deserves more_. He noticed that she did not keep his gaze for more than a few seconds before turning away back to the young girl who was casting nervous glances at the pair as she continued to cut the root at her feet. Septimus gestured to her.

"Another chaperone?"

Emmeline's lips curved in a smile as she shot him a sideways look. "Does it ever occur to you that I might be their chaperone?"

Septimus pretended to be nonplussed. He shook his head. "Never."

She laughed softly at his jibe, before concern touched her face and she turned back to him fully. "How's your arm?"

"Itchy," he said with a grimace.

"Itchy is good," she replied. Though her tone was light, Septimus noticed that it was slightly... different than normal. It seemed somewhat strained, as if the lightness took a small amount of effort. "That means it's healing. I'll look at it if you come down."

Easing himself from the saddle, he hopped lightly down from Wraith and turned to her. She stepped forward and took his arm, pushing his sleeve aside without fear. Whether it was her confidence as a physician or a friend that let her do that, he did not know. He only knew that it pleased him.

"You're in luck, anyway," she told him as she unwrapped the bandage. "Me and Merrin have been gathering bindweed leaves." Her gaze slid sideways as she glanced over at the girl. A tired smile curled her lips. "Although from her side it's been quite reluctant."

Septimus looked over at the young girl, finished cutting now and waiting. She curtsied awkwardly as she noticed the prince's gaze resting on her. Something about her reminded him of someone, but otherwise he could not place her. There were many such girls around the castle. Turning back to Emmeline, he watched as she checked his wound was clean.

"Can your reluctant helper keep her mouth shut?" he asked suddenly.

Emmeline barely glanced up. "With a little encouragement, I'm sure she will."

Encouragement. Septimus thought of the coins he usually brought for the boy that came with her to the woods. "You're an expensive woman to talk to, you know."

_Expensive, maybe, but worth it._

Frowning, Emmeline met his gaze. Her hands were still on his arm. "I meant that I'd impress upon her the importance of remaining silent," she said, the frown softening as she smiled. She shook her head. "You don't need to buy everyone."

Oh. Of course. It was strange, how certain she sounded. In his experience people worked for money or fear, not friendship. It was just easier to buy them, to threaten them, rather than befriend them. It was better. He looked down at Emmeline as she opened up her bag and reflected that maybe lately that had not been the case.

Emmeline produced a leaf from her bag and held it for him to see.

"Fresh bindweed leaf," she said with a grin. "It should help with the healing. Normally I'd mix it into a paste, but for this it'll probably be best as it is." She took his arm again, laying the cool yellow leaf over the cut. Her hands were gentle. A sharp smell reached his nostrils, and he noticed it was oddly familiar.

"Bindweed?" He sniffed again. "Why do I recognise it?"

Her face seemed to redden as she pressed the leaf close and began to re-wrap the bandage; he could not help but enjoy it. She waited a moment before replying. "When you came into the stables with Wraith that night. I used a bindweed cream on your..." Here she met his gaze fleetingly, the light blush obvious only due to their proximity. "... on your cheek."

_She definitely seems... flustered today_, Septimus mused. It wasn't fear, which he was thankful for, but rather as if she had something to hide. Or as if something had... changed. But he'd sorted out the trouble with Dall, hadn't he? So it wasn't that. His eyes drifted to the young girl observing them. Perhaps Emmeline was uneasy with her new charge watching. He had already paid the boy to stay silent, now there was another one that needed to keep their mouth shut. But it couldn't just be her presence. Maybe it was simply the different setting that made her uncomfortable. It was different to the working relationship of their spars, more social, more unexpected. But then there was that blush..._ Didn't I see that yesterday too?_

Finishing with the bandage, Emmeline stepped back and seemed to consider him for a moment, so he took the opportunity to do the same to her. There was still a red tinge to her cheeks that she seemed determined to ignore. Septimus decided against mentioning it. Dismissing her new behaviour as him surprising her with his sudden appearance, he shook his sleeve down.

"Perhaps I remembered the fond memories, then," he said, keeping his tone light. Though as he said it, it struck him that he was not entirely joking.

Emmeline looked down quickly, before meeting his gaze with a small smile. Yes, there was definitely something different about her today...

_I think I like it._

"Are we sparring today, then?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject to something less delicate. As much as he enjoyed it, it wasn't very fair to prolong her discomfort. "I went to the clearing to find you before I came here."

Her eyes widened. "Oh. Sorry." Then she shook her head, her expression turning serious. "But you can't spar today anyway. Not with that arm. If you take a hit the wrong way it'll open up again."

True. And as a good physician she wouldn't allow that. But... "What makes you think you'd hit me?"

When she grinned, he found himself immediately replying in kind. Emmeline shook her head at his usual confident banter and looked back at Merrin again, no doubt registering the girl's unease.

"Sorry," she repeated, when she turned back. "It looks like you've made a bit of a wasted journey."

Septimus watched the smile that still played around her lips and had to disagree.

"Not wasted," he said, shaking his head and keeping her gaze. "Definitely not wasted."

She went lightly scarlet again, as he'd hoped, and he took a selfish glee from it. To spare her any further blushes, he moved back to Wraith and pulled himself up.

"Tomorrow, then?" Glancing down at his arm, Septimus pulled a face. "If you'll let me."

Emmeline smiled and raised her eyebrows. "Could I stop you?"

By the stars, he loved it when she challenged him. He pretended to think about the question. "No," he decided, a grin breaking out on his face. "Probably not."

"Tomorrow, then," she affirmed.

Septimus nodded his thanks and turned Wraith to go. Then, as a thought struck him, he motioned for the girl —Merrin, was it?— to come over. She looked uncertain, but did as she was bid. He saw Emmeline watching him carefully but paid no heed to it.

"My lord?" questioned Merrin hesitantly, dropping another curtsy.

Trying not to smile, Septimus leaned down in his saddle and met the girl's eyes. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to ease her reluctance...

"You could do a lot worse than listen to her, girl," he said softly, pointing to Emmeline. "But you would do just as well to keep your mouth shut." Patting a pocket on his coat, he drew out a coin and tossed it down to Merrin. He had little doubt that his influence would have the girl under Emmeline's thumb indefinitely, but the bribe was an old habit he could not quite let go. Turning his attention back to Emmeline, he gave her a smug grin before he rode off.

The gently wry look he got in return only confirmed what he had said: it had definitely not been a wasted journey.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_So, first of all, sorry for how long it's taken for an update. I have excuses prepared, so bear with me._

_I've had a few issues with chaptering. Is that a word? It is now. So there's been a few hold ups as I reorganise and plan. Basically administration issues. As of right now, I don't have easy access to the internet but this will change shortly and I'll hopefully be able to sort things out quicker and get back to regular uploading. In addition, I have to blame my two predominant character traits: I am a lazy bugger but a perfectionist. Go figure._

_Regarding the chapter, _I know it's not full of excitement but_ before I moved things on I wanted a bit of Septimus/Emmeline interaction from Septimus's perspective. It was fun to write too. Also, you get a bit of Emmeline's life and history outwith the spars and stables, which I haven't really touched too much upon except the trouble with Arnyd.  
><em>

_So there we go. Thanks for all your continued support in reviews, favourites and alerts. I solemnly swear that the next chapter will not be so interminably late because I'm in the final editing stages as I type.  
><em>


	9. Chapter 9

"You fight differently now, you know."

Emmeline raised her head and caught Septimus's eye. He nodded towards her sword, his own held up before him. There was a light sheen of sweat on his brow and his breathing was a little heavier than usual. Emmeline knew she looked just as worn out. She practised most nights now, and Septimus always found her at least a few times a week. It had been two weeks since her unexpected encounter with him in the forest, and their regular sword fights had become habit. As had something else.

It was hard now not to notice how the shadow of stubble accentuated the sharp angle of Septimus's jaw and cheekbones, or the liveliness in his green eyes when he joked with her. Harder still to deny that she did not feel a thrill each time he inadvertently touched her, or even smiled. _I like him._ She had known it when he appeared that day, known for sure when she had met his gaze and quickly pulled away, frightened of what he would read in her eyes. But it was foolish, and she had resolved to ignore her feelings, confident that they would only bring trouble if acknowledged further. Aware he was waiting for her to speak, she dragged herself away from her thoughts.

"How so?"

He struck at her again before he replied. She parried hastily, knowing her quickened heartbeat was not entirely due to the exertion. Caught off guard with the strength of her defence, Septimus lost his ground slightly.

"Well, you haven't lost your skills," he said as he moved out of her reach, chuckling lightly. "But it's still different."

Different? She knew only one thing that had changed... but it shouldn't have affected her fighting. At least not noticeably so. _As much as I like seeing him smile, I prefer when it's not at my expense_. Emmeline attempted a sweeping attack then, her sword arcing upwards from the ground. His own weapon moving enviously fast, Septimus caught the strike before it hit. Jumping backwards, Emmeline regarded him questioningly.

"You've taught me a lot, you know that."

But Septimus was shaking his head as he circled her. "Not that kind of different. In that respect we're both better."

She returned his grin awkwardly, quickly tensing as he feinted left. Shifting his weight to the right, he brought his sword against hers with a loud clang.

"No," he grunted, as she pushed him away. "You used to fight like you were running, like you were fighting against something." Septimus backed off, easily skirting her next attack. He frowned slightly at her. "I told you that, didn't I?"

How could she forget? He'd said she fought desperately, intensely. She nodded, wondering where he was going with this. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Neal appear at the edge of the clearing, moving over to stand beside Briar as usual. Their hour was up. Septimus followed her gaze and saw the boy; he lowered his sword as she did the same.

"That's the change," he informed her as he sheathed his curved sword at his waist. "Now you fight like you've got something to fight for." He took a step forward and his expression was serious, his dark green eyes hard to read. "I am glad to see it."

Meeting his gaze then, she found it harder to pay no heed to the tiny skip of her heart, the shiver of pleasure his attention sent through her. _So much for ignoring this_. She felt herself smiling then and his lips twitched slightly in return, eyes darting over her face as if searching for something. Stepping back, he inclined his head to Emmeline politely. He made to move away to Wraith but she stepped forward to stop him, the question on her lips before she could think it through.

"And you?" She kept her gaze steady. "You said you recognised my fighting from your own." _And you seemed so regretful_. "Have you found something to fight for yet?"

There was something very... open about his expression for the tiniest second, something completely unhidden that took her by surprise. He seemed to regain himself however, as his guard went up again and he allowed her only a small smile.

"That's a foolish question, Whyte. My very life has to be fought for."

It was sadness, she realised suddenly. Even in his voice, she caught the small amount of regret he could not quite hide. And his answer hadn't really been an answer at all. But his expression was smooth now and his eyes betrayed nothing. _What is he hiding?_ His head dipped again in farewell and she watched as he hoisted himself onto Wraith and rode away.

When he was gone, Neal hurried to her side as excited as ever.

"Who won today?"

Turning to the boy, she found a smile for him as they walked over to Briar together. _Best to put Septimus out of my mind. Again._ "Hard to say," she said lightly. "We were working with daggers for the first bout and he bested me easily. I'm going to have to practice that." Emmeline bent to help Neal onto the horse, holding the stirrup steady for him. "Second bout... well, that's when you came back."

"You didn't have to stop for _me_," Neal said quickly, turning to grin at her as she settled behind him. "I could've watched you."

Flicking Briar's reins, she pushed the horse into a slow trot. "I wouldn't mind it, Neal. But I don't think that's my decision."

The boy's shoulders seemed to stiffen and Emmeline knew he was thinking of Septimus. Though Neal was comfortable enough with their sparring arrangements, in as much as he played a very small part in them, he was still wary of the dark prince. In part, she knew his shyness was due to his awe at the man's royal standing, but there was a little fear in his reluctance too. Emmeline nudged him gently.

"He doesn't bite, you know."

Neal did not reply. Emmeline found herself thinking about the sadness that had been in Septimus's face when he'd considered her question. Was he bitter about his standing in the kingdom? From the little she'd seen of him engaged in an official royal capacity, he always seemed so cool and collected. Short-tempered, yes, but otherwise quite at peace. Neal's voice interrupted her musings.

"Darran told me he's a vampire."

Frowning, Emmeline looked down at the boy. Darran was one of the stablehands, wasn't he? Not much older than Neal himself. She sighed. Trust the young boys' tales of Septimus to be even more ridiculous than the rumours the adults heard.

"Did he?" she asked tiredly. "I think Darran might be listening to too many scary stories."

Neal nodded, twisting his neck to look at her again. He seemed pleased by her reply. "I knew he was lyin' anyway," he said earnestly.

"Oh?" A small smile curled her lips as she looked down at him with interest. "How?"

"Easy. Vampires have big sharp teeth here," Neal bared his teeth, pulling his lips back from his upper jaw as he pointed to his left incisor. "An' here." He pointed to his right incisor. Point proven, he dropped his hands back to holding Briar's neck. "I saw his teeth once when he was smilin' at you, and he doesn't have 'em."

Emmeline could not help but smile herself at his confident tone and undeniable logic.

"Well, you were right, Neal." She ruffled his hair affectionately and he ducked out of her way. "He's definitely not a vampire."

The image of Septimus's smile came to her then. It was a strange thing, so quick and fleeting when it came, easing the usual tension of his face. And though Neal was correct that Septimus lacked prominent incisors, Emmeline had not failed to notice how his front two teeth overlapped slightly, a small quirk she had grown rather fond of. It was comfortingly human, in its own way. Again, Neal's voice pulled her from her thoughts.

"Oh, Em." He sounded as if he had suddenly remembered something. He fidgeted against her as he reached into his pocket. "Me and Darran went to the market yesterday. Look what I bought."

He thrust something into her outstretched hand. When she opened her hand, she saw it was a small wooden carving of a Stormhold soldier. The whittling was skilled, as shown in the smooth surfaces and careful details. The painted blue uniform was equally impressive, right down to the tiny golden buttons and insignia. The wooden man held a small silver sword and even the pommel of this was delicately carved. It looked... expensive.

"That's just the sergeant," Neal told her excitedly as she turned it over in her hand. "We got more than that—"

"More like this?" she interrupted him, and he nodded. "Neal, where did you get the—" Emmeline stopped short. Of course, the answer was obvious. It was Septimus's money, the coins that he'd bought Neal's silence with. She'd have to talk to him about that. "What did your Ma say?"

The look Neal gave her was childishly scathing; it reminded her of Merrin. Perhaps the siblings were more alike than she had previously thought. "I haven't shown her them, Em. I'm not _stupid_."

Emmeline tried not to smile. Yes, that was definitely Merrin. After Septimus had left, the girl had bombarded her with questions about her acquaintance with the prince, and Emmeline had played down their friendship. And totally left out the issue of her burgeoning affections.

"I'm not stupid," Merrin had said when she'd told her they were simply sparring partners. "You couldn't stop smiling when he..." The penny had dropped then. Audibly. The teenager's sudden grin had been alight with triumph. "You were blushing, Em. It wasn't him, was it? You're not—"

"Of course not," Emmeline had snapped in reply. "You don't know what you're talking about, and you shouldn't be talking about it anyway."

Not the most convincing of retorts, she knew, but she'd been knocked by Septimus's... teasing. If that was the right word for it. It had been hard to focus when he seemed insistent on making her blush. She had learnt to hide that now, though, careful not to let her foolish feelings have the upper hand. Nonetheless, Merrin had been quietly smug these last few weeks. Willing to overlook the dark prince's reputation for the possibility of romance, she had kept her silence but delighted in sharing knowing looks with Emmeline whenever they ran into each other. Or assaulting her with more questions whenever they were alone together. She supposed that was the teenage girl side of Merrin, and was thankful Neal was uninterested in such things.

She looked up and realised they had almost reached the stables. Shaking her head, Emmeline handed him back the soldier. Pocketing his new plaything, Neal hopped easily down from the horse and led him into the stables. Emmeline dismounted when they reached Briar's stall.

"Just be careful, Neal," she said quickly. "Don't draw attention to yourself with things like that."

Neal made a face. "Sorry."

"I know you didn't mean to. You've just got to be careful." She smiled at him then, reaching for the straps of Briar's bridle. "Come on, then. Let's get Briar settled and find out if Geord has anything for us to do."

The boy jumped forward to help her, grinning, and she found herself thinking of his assured reasoning on Septimus's mortality. If only a kingdom was so easily convinced.

* * *

><p>The stables were quiet that evening, so Emmeline had insisted that her father accompany her home early. He'd been surprisingly compliant, something new in the past few weeks. The business with Arnyd seemed to have softened him slightly, for he had been slower to argue with her as of late. As she walked with him towards their quarters, Emmeline found herself studying him and noted with concern the dark shadows under his eyes.<p>

"How's your sleeping?"

As if on cue, Geord stifled a yawn. He looked a little guilty. "It's fine, Em," he said dismissively. "I'm just tired from working."

"Father—" she began.

He cut quickly across her, striding ahead as if to exit the discussion. "No, I'm not overworking."

_Your definition of overworking is a universe away from mine, then._ Sighing, Emmeline shook her head. She quickened her steps to catch up to him. "You don't have to overwork if you're missing sleep."

His pace slowed then, and he reached a hand out for her shoulder. "I'm fine, Em. Honest. Why would I be missing sleep?"

Why indeed? Emmeline thought of Septimus and their secret spars. _But I'm safe, so he has no need to worry. No need to know._ Even so... she wondered if he'd ever sleep again if he knew of her feelings for the prince. Perhaps she took too long thinking this over, for Geord stopped and regarded her questioningly.

"Em?" His voice sounded puzzled. "You've the strangest look on your face."

"Sorry," she said, smiling apologetically. "I drifted off for a minute there."

If he did not believe her, he did not show his doubt. Nevertheless, Geord shook his head gently as they ascended the stairway to their quarters. "Maybe it's not me that needs sleep, then." He shot her a playful look over his shoulder. "I take it you were practising again today?"

Emmeline nodded, patting the sword at her waist. Though she usually returned it to her room after a practice, today she had forgotten. Her father seemed to have picked up on it. "What gave me away?" she asked jokingly.

Entering the kitchen, Geord turned to see her hand resting on the weapon's worn pommel. He frowned. "No, I didn't even notice your sword. It was you, actually. You always seem a bit..." He paused, seemingly searching for the right description. "... out of sorts after your practises these days."

It was amazing how he managed to turn her questioning his health into a discussion of her own wellbeing. Amazing yet irritatingly familiar. Despite this, his words intrigued her. Out of sorts? Emmeline unbuckled her sword belt and laid it on a nearby chair.

"What d'you mean?"

Her father frowned again before he answered her. "Nothing bad. You just seem a bit distracted sometimes, is all." Concern in his face, he turned back to her. "It's not Dall, is it? He hasn't—"

Arnyd was the least of her worries. She went to her father, shaking her head as she took his hands within her own. "I'm fine, father. Honest." As he realised she was echoing his previous words, his face relaxed and he nodded.

"It's good to know you're continuing with your practices, anyway," he said finally. "Puts my mind at rest."

Again, Emmeline doubted he would be so calm if he knew of her sparring partner. Her answering smile was a little strained as a result, but he did not seem to notice. "You don't need to worry about me, father," she assured him. "Don't let that keep you awake."

Smiling gently, he ran a calloused thumb over her cheek and regarded her fondly. "Just one more thing."

Frowning, Emmeline indulged him. "What?"

"Tell me you're happy."

As the large smile broke out on her father's face, Emmeline could not help but smile back. It was an old exchange from her childhood. Geord would ask her to tell him she was happy, and he'd claim he'd know if she was lying. When she was a child, she'd believed him. She raised an eyebrow at him but he simply spread his hands wide, waiting for her answer.

Suddenly Emmeline thought of Septimus, of the unspoken friendship between them. She thought of the new confidence his instruction had lent her fighting as well as her trouble with Arnyd. She thought of his fleeting grin, his quick wit, and the sincerity in his tone when he'd said he was pleased at the change in her fighting technique. Her lips pulling upwards slightly at the memory, she knew then that she had her answer. She met her father's eyes.

"I'm happy, father," she said swiftly, knowing it was the truth. Her smile widened at the answering pleasure on her father's tired face. "I'm happy."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _First off, huge huge thanks to _ElenaFromTheWoods_. The very beginning bit was inspired by something she brought up in a review and therefore all thanks must go to her. Hope you like it, Elena!_

_As for the rest of the chapter, I just wanted the expand on the previous chapter a bit. Also, Neal is becoming a bigger character than I expected. But rest assured excitement is forthcoming._

_And again, thank you very much for the continued support in favourites, alerts and reviewers old and new. It means a lot that you're all enjoying reading this story as much as I'm enjoying writing it._


	10. Chapter 10

As the week went on, their sparring habits continued. Emmeline enjoyed their practises immensely, not only for the new thrill of Septimus's company but for the ongoing challenge his skill afforded her. Her father still knew nothing of it, and the prince's silver continued to buy Neal's silence. Emmeline, remembering her recent talk with Neal, remarked on this when she was cleaning her sword after a particularly strenuous session in the late afternoon, one which had earned her a small nick in her arm.

"If you keep buying off Neal, someone's going to notice sooner or later. A stable boy doesn't get that much in wages."

Septimus glanced up from the ground, where he had been digging the tip of a small dagger into the dirt distractedly. Today he had been oddly distant; she had bested him without trouble and he had taken it wordlessly, with none of his typical injured bravado. His conversation had been unusually —at least by the standards she knew existed — withdrawn and brusque. He seemed preoccupied, and it worried her more than she cared to admit. She did not show her concern however, fairly certain he would not take kindly to it. Not while in this mood.

"Neal?" he questioned tonelessly.

She gestured towards the tree where the boy usually sat. "My chaperone."

"Ah." Septimus frowned. "What would you suggest?"

_At least he's listening._ Emmeline finished cleaning her sword and threw the dirtied leaves she'd been using to the ground. "Maybe give him something he can pass off as his own. Catch him a rabbit or something."

"A rabbit?" Septimus's face screwed up in distaste; it was the only real emotion she had seen on his face all day. "I don't hunt _rabbits_."

Emmeline got to her feet as Septimus followed suit. "Ask for one from the kitchens then. They get them in from the hunts, don't they? I'm sure you can do that."

"And have a story going round tomorrow that I'm eating small woodland creatures raw?"

Emmeline looked at him in surprise; he did not normally reference himself in the way that the kingdom saw him, or the rumours that were still so prone to being passed around. But the quick question had been enough to notice the bitterness in his voice, the flashing anger across his face. Yes, definitely preoccupied. Then he met her gaze, his expression carefully smoothed.

"I will see what I can do," he said shortly, before turning to leave.

* * *

><p>Putting away her worries about Septimus, Emmeline arrived later at the stables to find her father removing the tack from one of the royal messenger's horses. She stroked the roan idly as her father unfastened the elaborate bridle from the creature's head.<p>

"Good practice, Em?" asked her father. He noticed the small new bandage around her forearm. "Been fighting the trees again, have you?"

She laughed quickly, kissing her father's cheek as she took the bridle from him and walked with him into the stalls. He had certainly improved in the last few weeks, so she was happier to let him back into his beloved stables for longer shifts. Today, however, he looked as tired and drawn as the few nights before despite his cheery questioning. She made a mental note to check his dosage.

"I slipped my dagger up my sleeve wrongly," she said, feeling, as ever, a twinge of guilt at the deception. "It's one way of learning my lesson."

Geord looked at her strangely.

"What?"

"Neal was by earlier," he said slowly. "He always skips his work here to watch you train."

_Because you send him_, thought Emmeline, though she did not say.

"He said you hit your sword into a tree and hurt your arm when you pulled it out."

_Damn it, Neal. _

"Maybe that's when it happened, then," she shrugged, affecting nonchalance. "I'm distracted when I'm training, I normally don't even notice I'm hurt until I've finished."

Geord Whyte was still looking at his daughter without conviction, although he sighed and nodded as she hung up the bridle. He laid a hand on her shoulder and steered her back to the door.

"You get home, now. I'll be up later."

* * *

><p>When she woke the next morning, Emmeline saw that her father had already gone down to work. A quick count of his medicines told her that he had taken his morning mixture and she relaxed slightly. He might be stubborn, but he wasn't stupid.<p>

Eating quickly, she dressed in a simple shift and threw on a pair of breeches underneath. Belting her dagger at her waist, hidden beneath the shift, she made her way out the door. She was taking advantage of father's return to the stables to visit Wraith again this morning. When she arrived the large horse nickered happily to see her. Dividing the apple she had brought into smaller segments with her dagger, she turned quickly as she heard someone approaching.

Two men stood in the stable doorway, deep in conversation. Both had swords belted at their waists and appeared to have been training. One wore the simple green garb of a hunter and she recognised him immediately as Tavin, the man who had called for Septimus on the day of the hunt. His companion wore a long purple frock coat embroidered with a single repeated numeral — one. Emmeline frowned slightly. Primus, the eldest son of Stormhold. Though older than Septimus, he stood a few inches shorter and had a more rangy build. His small beard was neatly trimmed, as grey as his long hair. There was little resemblance between the two brothers. The men noticed her in surprise, which doubled as they saw her feeding Wraith without trouble. Tavin's eyes narrowed in recognition, but he did not speak.

"By the stars, girl, you've a stronger or more foolish heart than I," Primus said with a gentle smile. "That horse has given more than its fair share of bruises."

Emmeline, quickly sheathing her dagger in her belt, smiled uncertainly and bowed to the prince. "My lord Primus," she greeted meekly. Septimus did not much talk of his family, though she knew of Primus from her own childhood. His large silvery horse Dixon —'Dixie' to his affectionate master— was a gentle beast and a familiar occupant of the stables. She noticed it stood in the doorway now, calm and tame, the reins in the hunter's grasp. Primus strode forward to her, regarding her interestedly.

"Wait. I know your face, do I not?"

She held her head steady as he kept his benign gaze on her. Everyone said Primus would make a good king, that he was kind and fair. She remembered how he would smile to see her as a child, helping her father. Back then she'd peered at him through lowered lashes but now she met his gaze without fear.

"My father is the groom here, my lord. I was often in the stables as a youth." She watched the prince nod as he placed her. Though there had been five years, Emmeline knew she had changed little. Her face was leaner and she stood taller, but her looks were still familiar enough. "I have been back these past few months for his illness."

"Whyte, isn't it?" She nodded. "I am glad to hear he is recovering well." Primus then waved towards Wraith, whose previously docile bearing had stiffened with the newcomer. "I am sure it is from him that you have learnt how to handle such a beast."

Emmeline stroked the horse's flank gently and felt him relax under her hand. She looked at the eldest prince and saw little of Septimus's strong stance in him. No calculated arrogance, no secrecy behind his smile. But... despite that... _Nothing that makes my heart sing_. Two brothers, yet so different. Hands still on the black horse, she shrugged non-committally. "My lord, it is little more than patience and trust."

"Ha!" Here Tavin spoke, his voice harsh and with little of the humility he had shown in front of Septimus. "That horse has learnt to shun both, no doubt from his maister."

Turning rapidly, the eldest son of Stormhold moved toward his man and snatched the reins from him. "Tavin, you should govern your tongue," he snapped. "There is a time and a place for such mutterings." Primus then strode back to Emmeline, and his easy smile returned as he handed her the reins. "Here then, girl. Would you unsaddle him and stable him for the day? I am required at the castle."

As she unsaddled Dixon, she reflected on the words of the hunter, Tavin. Patience and trust. Both were things she had experienced from Septimus, and both were things she reciprocated without doubt. Yet Septimus, like his horse, had obviously given more than his fair share of bruises. To put it lightly. And yet she continued to spar with him. To trust him, to enjoy his company. _More than enjoy._ Emmeline found herself wondering if that made her heart strong, or just plain foolish.

* * *

><p>Any questions about her heart were put to the test with the late arrival of Septimus at one of their training sessions. In his absence, she had sent Neal away and had been practising throwing her dagger at a small charcoal mark high on a far off tree. As she aimed once more, dagger held above her shoulder, she felt a sudden presence behind her. A hand cupped her elbow and pushed it higher before repositioning her index finger on the handle. Another hand rested gently on her shoulder for a moment as if steadying her.<p>

"Throw now," said Septimus softly from behind her, his voice a delicious growl that made her shiver.

Her heart racing, she thrust the dagger in haste; it hit the tree but clattered uselessly to the forest floor. She whirled around to find Septimus laughing.

"Did I _distract_ you?" he asked through his laughter, in a tone of mock innocence. He was dressed in his usual immaculate black, with his hair swept messily back from his forehead. There was nothing of the previous day's agitation in the relaxed set of his body — on the contrary he seemed unusually... playful. Almost mischievous. Emmeline found herself admiring the roguish grin that split his handsome face.

Knowing she was blushing then, Emmeline scowled and traipsed over to the tree to retrieve the dagger, feeling Septimus's amused eyes on her the whole time. He seemed to enjoy making her blush. These past few weeks she had not failed to notice that and had been forced to redouble her efforts to keep her emotions in check. She had been successful, in part. Septimus's words were always carefully chosen but more recently he seemed to try for a reaction in most of what he said — despite this, she found she could keep a hold on her feelings, responding casually regardless of how her cheeks longed to burn. She had long since dismissed her sensitivity to his joking as a product of her new awareness of the man, but it was times like this that made her wonder if he didn't actually do it on purpose. Traipsing back, she reached him and pointed the dagger at the smirk that had been so quick to appear on his face.

"You are unjust," she reprimanded him, if only to regain some dignity. "Not only do you come late, but you come—"

"Bearing gifts," he interjected, his face a mockery of contriteness and his tone closely matched to hers in outrage despite his words.

"Yes, bearing gifts, without apology..." She tailed off as she registered what he had said. "_Bearing gifts_?"

Septimus laughed again, and she shot him a dark look. It was without feeling however, as she tried not to notice how his eyes lit when he laughed so freely, or how much she enjoyed the easy humour he seemed in today. When he behaved like this it was hard to think of her feelings towards him as foolish.

Urging her to wait, he strode back to Wraith and reached up behind the saddle. He turned back to her, an odd smile playing about his lips.

"Close your eyes, then," he called. She stared dubiously at him but it only made his grin grow wider. "Close your eyes."

_You trust him, remember,_ a small voice said to her. So she shut her eyes, arms crossed over her chest, but could not keep the grin that tugged her own lips. She heard him coming back, his footfalls light on the grass. The spurs on his boots clicked when he stopped. He paused before her and she heard him breathing. Impatient, when he did not move for a few seconds she felt her eyelids flicker but he chided her gently.

"Keep them closed."

Emmeline screwed her face up in his general direction, though she did as she was told. She heard him chuckle lightly. Then a thought came to her and she took a half step back, hands held up before her, fighting the urge to open her eyes.

"It's not a rabbit, is it? If you've brought a dead rabbit—"

Again, laughter.

"Open your eyes, then."

When she opened them, she looked to his face first. Though he was still smiling, there was an odd wariness in his eyes. She looked down. He was holding a long parcel, wrapped inexpertly in a soft material, and he handed it to her. At his urging, she unrolled it hesitantly, exclaiming to find a beautiful sword, long and deadly when she pulled it from its elaborately worked scabbard. The leather-covered handle was worn but the blade was clean and sharp; there was a small decorative carving of a seven in the metal close to the hilt.

"It's not a dead rabbit," he said, one eyebrow raised. He reached forward and tapped his birth number. "This was the first proper sword I had."

When she looked to him curiously, he continued with an off-handedness she knew was carefully manufactured. "It's lighter than the one you're using." He shrugged. "I thought it might be interesting to see what you can do with it."

Emmeline looked down at the beautiful blade in amazement. Though he attempted to belittle the gift, it was clearly important to him; she could read him well enough to know that. He seemed uncomfortable now, less confidence in his bearing than she was used to.

"Thank you," she said, but he was already unsheathing his own sword.

"Thank me after you've shown me what you can do with it."

He seemed determined not to make a big deal out of the sword he had given her, so she allowed him his distance. After the previous day's dark mood, she was just glad that he was back to his usual self. Questions could wait. As she balanced the new sword in her hands, circling Septimus in combat mode, Emmeline found comfort in the way her fingers fitted into the grooves of the handle that she imagined Septimus's own younger hands had once fitted. Tightening her grip around these imprints, she struck. He'd said it might be interesting, and she'd be damned if she wasn't going to make sure it was.

* * *

><p>"What are these?" Emmeline asked as they waited for Neal's return. She had noticed the variety of small nicks in the leather of his sword's handle, straight and even enough to look intentional.<p>

The less heavy blade had heightened her agility and allowed her freer movement. She had been able to duck and dive faster, her father's heavy sword no longer holding her back. Twice she had almost scored mortal wounds against Septimus; twice he had laughingly threatened to take the sword away from her. Now they sat in a companionable silence, regaining their breath.

"Hmm?" Septimus took his eyes off the trees and leaned over. He smirked to see the marks on the handle.

"A count of the spars I won and the hunts I was successful on," he said, a tone of self-mockery entering his voice. "I was barely fifteen, such things are important at that age." He pointed to the first one, closest to the hilt. "Primus's really, that one. It was a boar. He let me use my sword to finish it."

Emmeline thought it odd, the ease with which he spoke of a brother he knew he would have to kill. A brother she had met only that morning, all smiles and gentle words. But when he spoke of his childhood, there was no joy in his voice, only regret. He spoke Primus's name with no more emotion than he spoke of anything else of little consequence; the elder brother's gift was relayed without passion. He seemed to notice the unease that crept into her face when he mentioned his brother and steered the conversation back to the sword itself.

"It suits you better." There was no tone to his voice now, it was flat and even.

She weighed the blade in her hands before answering. "It feels... less of a burden than my father's sword, right enough."

"Take it."

Emmeline looked at him, startled, to find a small smile curling his lips. How quickly his moods changed. And how much power that smile of his had over her heart... She shook her head.

"No, I couldn't—"

"It's yours, I insist. I said it was a gift." He waved away her protestations. "And it'll be better for both of us if you're working with a good sword," he added quickly, as if self-consciously trying to undermine the gift again. Though he strove to seem unconcerned, there was something intense about his gaze.

"I will accept it then," she acquiesced, which earned a curt nod from him. The warm feeling in her stomach was dampened as she realised something he had probably already worked out. "But you know I cannot keep it myself. Someone will recognise your mark."

Septimus glanced down to the tiny carved seven she was pointing at. He seemed about to argue, but quietened as Neal came into view at the edge of the clearing. He took the sword from her silently and belted it next to his own, the two blades hidden under his coat. He made to leave before she stopped him, a hand on his elbow. The small contact made her hand tingle pleasantly, and being the focus of those dark green eyes set her heart racing again. _Did I distract you?_ he'd asked earlier. _Oh, more than you can know._

"But thank you," she said seriously, meaning it. He met her gaze for a moment, seeing the truth of her words there, before his eyes flickered to Neal.

"I should go. Follow on after I am gone."

With another careful nod, so different from his earlier playfulness, he pulled himself up on Wraith. Emmeline watched him bite his lip as if thinking. She spoke first, however.

"Will you be here tomorrow?"

He nodded, still distracted. "In the evening, if you can."

"I would like that," she said, pleased when his face relaxed a little. She pointed to where his coat had been pushed backward to reveal the two scabbards at his waist and smiled. "Maybe I'll add my own nicks to the handle."

"You'd have to win, first," he retorted, some of his familiar attitude returning. She was gratified to see the smile that played around his lips. "Tomorrow evening, then."

Emmeline nodded happily before turning away to call Neal. The boy was standing with Briar, so she made her way over. Again, she could feel Septimus's eyes on her in the pause before she heard Wraith begin to move.

* * *

><p>As he rode Wraith back to the stables, Septimus cursed himself. <em>Idiot.<em> The gift had been an apology, of sorts, for his behaviour the previous afternoon. Her encounter with Arnyd had been almost forgotten, but wary of her past with him he had been so careful not to snap or shout, lest it scare her. Recently it had been very important to Septimus that he not scare her.

And of course she couldn't keep the sword. He scowled at his childish reaction. _Sulking Septimus. How dignified_. How could he not have realised it before? But she'd said she would accept it. He remembered the sight of her smaller hand curling around a pommel his own hands knew so well, and found he felt quite satisfied with that.

Satisfied... It was a strange feeling.

Emmeline's face came to him then, eyes closed and a grin at her lips. The trust she had for him still astounded him, but pleasantly. How many people would willingly close their eyes in his armed presence? But she knew she was safe, and it warmed his heart. Even so... He knew full well that had he wished, had he wanted to... he could have just reached out... reached out and... well, anything. He could have killed her.

_Or kissed her?_ asked a tiny voice.

When he'd arrived, seeing her standing there with the dagger — he'd only meant to help her aim. But being so close... it had brought out something in him, something teasing and playful that he'd long since thought lost. And it had made her blush again, hadn't it? He hadn't managed to do that for a while. And lately there had definitely been something new in the blue eyes, something that made him wonder...

Rapid hoof beats startled him out of his musings.

"Where have you been?"

Secundus drew up beside him, his voice haughty as usual. He sat high atop his dark grey horse, the aptly but pretentiously named Storm. Septimus barely looked at him, glad that they were far enough away from the clearing that Secundus could not have connected them. The last vestiges of his good mood left, though he could not quite still his heart.

"Out," he replied shortly. He tugged Wraith's reins sideways, urging the horse on. But Secundus persisted, digging his heels into Storm's flanks and catching up easily. The elder brother took in Septimus's rumpled and sweaty attire.

"Have you been training?" Secundus tried to meet his brother's gaze. "Who with?"

No. Secundus could stay far away from Emmeline. His elder brother noticed how he stiffened, however, and continued to probe.

"I'll have to tell them they're working you too hard, brother, if you always return in so black a mood."

Septimus ignored him. Secundus's face twisted; he hated not being listened to far more than he hated conversing with his younger brother.

"Do not forget what I told you, Septimus," the older man warned. "You will not win my throne with fancy footwork."

_My throne_. Septimus saw his own knuckles whiten as he clutched at the reins. How could he forget how Secundus had goaded him a few nights ago, when it led to him meeting Emmeline in such a foul mood?

"I am more skilled than you," Secundus had boasted over dinner. "More powerful. More strong. More_ liked_. This kingdom will not accept you for fear alone. Do not forget it, _little_ brother."

As if he could. He didn't need reminding of his standing in birth or his unfavourable reputation. As the youngest, he had the most to prove. The most to lose. Emmeline's face came to him again. _Yes, certainly the most to lose._ He glowered at Secundus, who smiled nastily at this reaction.

"Who trains you, then? You are wasting their time, as well as your own."

Septimus, ignoring him, spurred Wraith on again. He could see the stables, and felt glad that Secundus would finish his baiting soon. Arrogant as usual, he would not speak so plainly when among the common folk.

"Is it that rat Tavin, the one Primus tries so hard to learn from?" his brother persisted.

Septimus did not answer. Leaning further forward, he urged Wraith on. When he jumped down from the horse Secundus was not far behind him. He heard him spring lightly to the floor. Turning, he found himself face to face with his brother. The man was slightly taller than him, his long hair sleek and well-groomed.

"You will not win my throne," Secundus repeated, trying to provoke him further. "You would do well now to give up."

Septimus stared him down. He felt the reassuring weight of the two swords at his belt and tensed his body.

"Don't claim your prize so quickly, Secundus." He filled the name with as much venom as he could muster. "I'll give up when I'm dead."

Sneering, Secundus eyed his brother. He leaned closer. "I look forward to it then, and can only hope I have the great pleasure of ensuring that comes soon."

Calling over one of the stablehands, he thrust Storm's reins at him and began to make for the castle. He stopped and turned back to his younger brother.

"I will find out where you go, Septimus," he vowed. "You may think you are cunning, but you will_ never_ win."

As Septimus watched his brother leave, his words made him think of something Emmeline had said. What was it again? _It's bad form to decide on an outcome before the fight's done._ Septimus let a smile curl his lips. Secundus was nothing if not a man of bad form, and the fight between the brothers had a long way to go yet.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _Well, I enjoyed writing that! Finally a bit of excitement. I know it is, as Joane would call it, "a big 'un", but as of late the chapters have been getting longer than the 2000-2500 words they usually sit at. Don't know if this is good or bad. Hopefully good._

_Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the favourites, alerts and reviews. Keeps me going as I push through little bouts of writer's block._

_Dixon, or Dixie, Primus's silvery horse, is for _DarkerSideOfAmbition_. Couldn't help myself. _

_Also, the more perceptive among you may have noticed I've been naming the horses in a way that I think reflects the natures of the brothers — Septimus's Wraith is named to be mysterious and slightly fearsome; Secundus's Storm is pretentious, arrogant and somewhat unimaginative (Storm of Stormhold, indeed); Primus's soft heart lets him name a horse Dixie, because, you know what, he just liked it. You'll have to wait and see what Tertius has called his though. I'm going to try and fit that in a later chapter._

_And just because I am childish here is the alternate ending for this chapter:_

_"Secundus_, thought Septimus irritatedly, thinking over his brother's words. _More like Secund-ASS!"_


	11. Chapter 11

When Septimus arrived that next evening Emmeline thought he seemed a little preoccupied again, glancing behind him at the trees as if looking for someone. His initial greeting to her was curt, but by the time he'd given her his sword and begun to warm up he was returning to his usual sparring mindset.

"Don't put all your strength into a single thrust," he ordered, dark brows together in a small frown. "It weakens your footing."

Emmeline, nodding, shifted her weight from foot to foot. Biting her lip, she lunged forward and struck against his blade with calculated power.

"Like this?"

Septimus favoured her with a quick grin, approval flashing in his green eyes. "Exactly. Then you've got the strength for when I do _this_."

Catching her unaware, he slammed his blade against hers, pushing her backwards. She only just managed to keep her balance, stumbling away with her sword held before her. Looking pleased, he lowered his sword and stepped back. Brushing his hair from his face, he regarded her silently.

A pleasant shiver made its way down Emmeline's spine as she looked back at him, still a little out of breath. His cheeks were dark with the shadow of stubble tonight, and his lips curved again in a grin. He nodded to her, challenge in his eyes. _And... something else, is there?_

"Ready to fight for that notch in the handle, then?" he asked.

His taunting question gave her a chance to focus. They were here to fight, not to... well, not to do anything else but fight. As much as she could find other things to distract her. As much as that fleeting look in his eyes intrigued her, made her want to ask... _No_. They were here to fight. She pushed away her feelings and settled into a combative posture.

"Ready to _win,_" she responded with more confidence than she felt. He laughed at that, tilting his chin at her sharply.

"We'll see."

Still grinning, he moved towards her. Emmeline curled her hand around her sword and got ready to fight, casting her mind far from his dark green eyes.

* * *

><p>The combination of the competition and Emmeline's new lighter sword again ensured that they were even more so well-matched than usual. They had each scored small hits against each other, but neither had gained the upper hand to any great degree. And though Emmeline had managed to disarm Septimus of his sword, he had been quick to compensate with a dagger that was drawn so fast the loss of his sword barely even registered with her.<p>

"Should we call it a draw?" asked Septimus, failing to mask the humour in his tone. Much like the previous day, there was now no trace of the distracted mood he had arrived in.

Emmeline parried his next thrust quickly, before switching direction and hitting into his stout dagger roughly, earning a quick grunt from him. The forest had darkened over the course of the hour and they were close to the tree line now, Septimus having pushed her backwards from the clearing. She waited until he had backed off a little before replying.

"Would I still get a notch?"

Septimus pretended to consider it as they began circling each other once again. Then he caught her eye and shrugged.

"I'd let you mark half of it."

She snorted, and he took the opportunity to push forward. It was all she could do to fend him off, her sword moving desperately to regain some space. When he had retreated slightly she pointed her longer blade at him.

"I'm going to mark half of_ something_ before this is over," she threatened, breathing heavily.

Septimus laughed then, and she found herself distracted by how easy, how relaxed he was today. How open his usually careful eyes were, how quick he was to grin. And how much she liked it... Her hand weakened slightly around her sword, so she saw the intent in Septimus's eyes before she could regain herself.

Striking forward, he smacked the blade from her hand with the butt of his dagger and backed her against a nearby tree. Breath laboured, he caught her wrists in a single large hand and held them tightly above her head. His dagger pointed between her ribs, triumph clear in his face.

"Submit," he panted.

Suddenly she became acutely aware of him: his closeness, the strong scent of his sweat, the warmth of his breath on her skin, the heat of his body against hers, the strength of his hand around her wrists... Heart thumping, she met his gaze as steadily as she could.

"I submit," she whispered, voice shaking.

In Septimus's dark eyes something changed, some last guard fell. She saw the desire then, a passion she knew her own face must surely reflect. Then his lips were on hers, needful and demanding; letting go of her captured wrists, his hands clasped roughly at her forearms, long fingers tight against her flushed skin. Emmeline felt the tree hard against her back as Septimus pressed closer. His climbing hands found the soft skin of her neck and held there firmly. Losing herself in the kiss, she curled one of her hands lightly in the fabric of his shirt, her other hand brushing against the hair that touched his shoulders.

There was nothing gentle about his movements, nothing tender about the way his lips hit hers and yet there was something vulnerable about the need, the raw... urgency with which he kissed her. Emmeline felt herself leaning closer in response, felt her hands curling tighter, just as eager and wanting. Close to, his skin smelled of something sharp, like cinnamon tickling at her nose. It made her stomach flip.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, his lips slowed and his hands seemed to loosen their grip on her face. Breathing heavily, his lips parted from hers and his dark green eyes, pupils blown wide, regarded her with a sudden wariness.

"I—I must go," he said shortly. He stopped only to pick up his dagger and the sword she had disarmed him of earlier. As he did so, he glanced up. There was colour high in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the recent exertion of their swordplay. His eyes were still wide but their guarded veil had returned.

"I—" Septimus shook his head then, emotions battling quickly across his face. He frowned, and his voice was rough and taut with an unexpected anger when he next spoke. "_No_. No, I must go."

He did not look back as he strode away to Wraith. Stunned into silence, Emmeline pressed a trembling hand to her lips, swollen with the prince's kiss. Looking down she saw his sword, his gift, lay on the ground not far off; he'd obviously forgotten to pick it up in his haste to leave. As Wraith's hoof beats faded, she picked the sword up and belted it at her waist. The buckle was tightened with unsteady hands. Emmeline looked around the empty clearing and wondered what had just happened.

* * *

><p>When she'd arrived back late, Emmeline had gone straight to bed. Lying there the next morning, her head reeling, she tried to make sense of the previous night's events. <em>He kissed me. He kissed me.<em> Her stomach flipped pleasantly at the memory. _And you kissed him back_, a small voice reminded her. _You kissed him back and you loved it._

Oh, but his lips had curved so invitingly. Moved so... desperately against her own.

Running a finger along her mouth, she found she could not quite rid herself of the feel of his lips against hers, and her quickening heart told her she wanted to feel them again.

Though Emmeline had known exactly when her initial excitement for their spars had turned into something more, she could never have guessed that he could have felt similarly. _Or did I just not allow myself to think it?_ Her mind went back to his recent teasing, the warmth in his eyes when he joked with her. She had appreciated the unconventional friendship they seemed to have struck up, but resigned herself to it proceeding no further than that. But... _Resigned or blinded myself?_It would certainly explain a lot.

_But I'm just a stable girl_, she reminded herself. _And he's a prince._

_A prince who enjoys your company. A prince who teases you. And now... A prince who has kissed you_, the small voice countered. A remembering smile pulled at her lips.

But he'd left. Her smile faded. Did he think he'd went too far, crossed a line best left uncrossed? Reacted instantly in the heat of the moment and regretted his actions? There were so many questions, but she had so few answers.

After a hasty breakfast, Emmeline found herself walking towards the castle kitchens in search of a distraction, if not a chance to find some answers. She doubted Septimus would turn up if she went to the clearing today, and even if he was to appear she wouldn't know what to do. What to say. They certainly couldn't just fight, ignore what had happened and relapse into their old routine. Not after that. The kiss had only confirmed her feelings for him, and if he were to regret it... She hurriedly pushed the thought out of her mind and focussed on reaching the kitchens.

Upon arriving she was surprised at the amount of movement. Cooks and serving girls she'd never seen before bustled through the large kitchens and the heat of many pans assaulted her when she entered. There was a hubbub of sound; shouted orders, frivolous chatter, loud chopping and gurgling pots. Seeing Joane's big figure labouring over one such large pot, she made her way over.

"Em!" clucked Joane, surprised, as she turned to find the young woman behind her. "What's goin' on?"

"I just came to talk," Emmeline said, leaning back onto a vegetable-laden table before the cook shooed her off of it. "What's going on here?"

Joane fixed her with a disbelieving stare. "You never come in here just to talk, girl." She turned back to throw some of the chopped vegetables into the steaming pot as the water hissed. "What are you anglin' for?"

Emmeline picked up an onion and tossed it from hand to hand distractedly. Perhaps Joane had more questions for her than answers. Joane snatched the onion from her and shook a large finger in her face.

"Not got time to chat anyhow," she admonished. "There's to be a ball tomorrow."

"A ball?" repeated Emmeline, as Joane handed her back the onion with a knife and a muttered "make yourself useful, then".

"For the princes," said Joane over her shoulder as she added still more ingredients to her bubbling pot.

"And princesses," piped a smug voice from behind Emmeline. She turned to find Merrin regarding her with a wide smile. Emmeline fought to keep her voice steady in her reply. What the girl would say if she knew what had happened last night...

"We don't have any princesses, Merrin. Not since Lady Una disappeared, at least."

"Lady Una was _born_ a princess, Em," Merrin informed her in a martyred tone, as if the distinction was clear and she suffered by having to define it so clearly. "You can still be a princess if you marry a prince." Then the teenager's smile grew sly. "So we don't have any princesses _yet_," she concluded quietly, eyebrows raised as she looked pointedly at Emmeline. Cheeks colouring, Emmeline was thankful Joane did not look round from her pot. Merrin, grinning triumphantly at the reaction she'd gotten, handed more onions to Emmeline and dashed away.

"What's that girl sayin' now?" muttered Joane impatiently, finally turning from her pot. Emmeline shook her head, indicating that it was unimportant. Sighing, the cook glared at Merrin's retreating back. "She's just excited 'bout seein' all the lords an' ladies in their fancy clothes. That's all they've been talkin' over for days. Waste o' time if you ask me. Frills or no frills, they're just a few more pretty mouths to feed."

"Why are they having a ball anyway?" asked Emmeline, as she set about dicing the onions. More than ever, Merrin's words had struck a nerve but she was determined not to let it show. _Princess? _Even with her feelings for Septimus, the idea was ridiculous... wasn't it?

Joane dumped a couple of carrots in front of her before replying. The sudden deluge of vegetables and Joane's usual firm voice knocked Emmeline out of her thoughts. "Why anythin'? King's orders, o' course. Probably to do with the fact 'most everyone thinks he's already dead, so he's sent for everyone to come see he's not. Kill the rumours, at least."

Nudging Emmeline over, the cook grabbed another knife and began helping her with the vegetables.

"Speakin' of rumour..." Joane continued, glancing sideways at Emmeline. "Your prince was down 'ere the other night." Emmeline's hand slipped and she nicked her finger with the edge of her blade.

"_My _prince?"

Joane passed her a nearby cloth, tutting at her carelessness. "The one you were askin' about some weeks past. That Septimus character."

Nursing her finger, Emmeline looked carefully at her friend. She did not sound accusing or angry, but that still did not stop the fluttering of her heart. She fought to keep away a blush at the memory of Septimus's demanding lips on hers, the desire in his eyes._ My prince, indeed_.

"Came down real late, just me an' a couple of the servin' girls was 'ere. Like a dirty great bat, all in black. Scared us somethin' rotten." Joane did not seem to notice Emmeline had stopped tending to her injury and was instead listening intently. "Asked for a rabbit, of all things. A raw one from the hunt. God knows what he wanted it for." The cook rolled her eyes and let out a short laugh. "Well, one of the maids was speakin' earlier actually—" She waved a hand in the vague direction of a young girl Emmeline often saw in the company of the stable boys. "She says one of the lads told her he eats 'em raw!"

A sad smile found its way to Emmeline's lips at that, and Joane caught it. She frowned and fixed Emmeline with her usual penetrating gaze. "Well, you ain't got much to say, for someone who wants to talk."

Emmeline looked at her friend but the truth of her thoughts must have been clear on her face; Joane gasped and pointed her knife accusingly at the girl she regarded as a daughter.

"What's he said to you? You've seen 'im again, ain't you?"

Emmeline thought about denying it, but she knew Joane would read the truth of it eventually. Or at least some of it. Burying her feelings and hoping they did not betray her, she nodded guiltily.

"We've been practising together," she admitted quietly. "Swordplay." _Kissing._

Joane took Emmeline by the arm and led her into a small store cupboard, where she closed the door behind them. She turned on the young woman with fear in her eyes.

"Em, do you know what you're doin'?"

"He's relaxed when we fight," she insisted. "He's not like the stories, he's someone else. Joane, I think he's just—"

"You _think_?" Joane interrupted. "And when has what you've thought ever kept you safe, eh?"

_That's low, Joane_. Emmeline balled her fists. "All you get are rumours and second-hand stories, you don't have any idea..."

_How good his lips taste. How strong, how safe, his hands feel on my skin. How much his grins melt me._

Shaking her head angrily, Joane cuffed Emmeline lightly around the head.

"I have enough idea, girl. And you should know better. Whatever game this prince is playin', you'll get hurt."

Emmeline put a hand to the side of her head. Joane hadn't hit it hard, but it the fact she had hit out at all was enough to shock her. When she saw the worry in her friend's face, she felt guilty. _They're always, always trying to protect me_. Sighing, she tried a gentler tactic. "Joane, you told me to trust myself. And I trust him."

"Yes," said Joane, angry still. "I told you to trust _yourself_, not him."

"Joane, please. I think he's..." She thought of the sadness that had slipped through his guard. "I think he's just lonely."

Joane was still shaking her head, her eyes uncharacteristically narrow and cold. "No. _No_. You're confusing bein' lonely with bein' alone." The portly woman made her way to the door, and pointed Emmeline out of it. "There's some folks left alone for a reason, Em. He's one of 'em."

As she left, Emmeline found herself struggling to reconcile her earlier excitements with Joane's warning. Though Emmeline did not deny the attraction from her end, she found she could not understand Septimus's intentions, not with any great degree of certainty. He seemed to enjoy her company, yes, but could he really feel for her in the way that she did for him? Emmeline remembered the stories of his brother Secundus and wondered if it was possible Septimus was simply playing with her. Filling his time. Sating some lust.

But... there was that raw, unguarded moment on his face; it had been so full of desire. So at odds with his hasty exit. Unless it scared him, she reasoned. Surprised him. Perhaps she had still not stopped surprising him.

But then why run? Hadn't they both done enough of that?

* * *

><p>"You're home early."<p>

Emmeline looked up at the sound of her father's voice as he came into her room. He smiled to see her, but there was something different about it, something slightly strained. Septimus's sword lay on her lap, the newly-polished blade glinting in the light. Geord Whyte frowned at it.

"What's that?"

Too late, she tried to shove the sword out of sight. It was stupid to have taken it out from under her bed, but it gave her some comfort, some proof of Septimus's good intentions toward her. It had been a gift, hadn't it? Surely that meant something, despite how he'd tried to dismiss it himself. Surely...

"_Emmeline._"

She met his gaze at the firm tone. Her father held his hand out to her, palm facing up. Realising she would not win, she handed him the sword. She watched his eyes harden as they rested on the carved seven.

In some ways, it was a relief for him to finally know of she and Septimus's shared acquaintance. _No more lying_. She'd hated lying to him. Especially now. Sparring with Septimus had been one thing, but the kiss had changed it all. And the fact she wanted to kiss him again... more than kiss him... No, she could not lie to her father any more. He deserved more than that. Pulling her strength together, she lifted her chin to meet his eyes.

"He gave it to me."

"_He_." Geord repeated. It was not a question, however. "Joane spoke to me after you were by."

Joane. The woman never left the kitchens on a quiet day, let alone on one of such busy preparation for tomorrow's ball. She must have been worried sick. Feeling ashamed, Emmeline wondered how to react. One glance at Geord confirmed her father's fury: his lips were set in a thin line and his body was tensed. So that had been the tightness behind his smile — he'd figured it out already.

"All those times?" he asked, voice low. "You were with him, all those times?"

"I didn't want to lie to you, father," Emmeline tried softly. "But you were so..."

"Blind? Stupid?" His face reddened with temper. "That's me, is it?"

"No!" Emmeline stood. Reaching a hand out to her father, she appealed to his protective nature. "I trust him, father. I trust him like I never trusted Arnyd."

That caught his attention. Eyes narrowing, he frowned at his daughter. "Arnyd? What's Arnyd got to—"

He stopped short, and Emmeline realised her mistake.

"What has he..." Her father backed away, dropping the sword to the floor. He pointed a finger at her, shaking his head. Emmeline felt her heart clench as she saw the hurt in his eyes. "No, Em. He hasn't... _You_ haven't—"

Throwing caution to the wind, Emmeline stepped forward and reached for her father's hands. "We kissed, father. We kissed." His hands were limp in her own. "I care for him," she continued earnestly. "I know him and I care for him."

There was a moment of silence between them. She tightened her grip on his hands and spoke softly, entreatingly. "I wish I could tell you that you're right, but you're not."

"Why?" he demanded suddenly. "Because I was wrong about Dall, I'm wrong about this?" He snatched his hands from her grip, angry. She had never heard her father's voice so furious. But he looked so ill, so old. "I'm not wrong."

"Father, you want me to be safe? Trust me. I'm safe with him. Whatever you've heard—"

He was shaking his head. "Is wrong? And you're the judge?" Geord snorted scornfully. "I don't know how he's charmed you, if you don't see what he is."

"Like you didn't see what Arnyd was?" she countered quickly.

A vein throbbed in his temple. He sighed regretfully, a little of his anger leaving. "Aye, Em. I was wrong there. But that's different." His face hardened again. "Dall was a fool, not like this... this _Septimus_." He spat the name, making it sound more of an accusation than anything. "There's a difference between a fool and a monster."

_Monster._There it was again, so brutal and coarse. There was nothing about the Septimus she saw that should attribute such harsh description.

"He's not, father." Her voice was small, faltering. "If he was, I wouldn't go near him. Not after Arnyd. I trust him, I swear."

Nothing.

"If you can't trust him, at least trust me." Emmeline stepped close to her father, trying to meet his gaze. Her own eyes prickled with tears she would not let fall. "Take _my_ word for him. Trust _me_."

Her father's jaw tightened, and she felt so guilty. His face was pale now; it reminded her of the first time she had seen him after her return to Stormhold. _Oh, he looks so ill. _But when he spoke, his hurt voice was still barbed with quiet outrage. "You've been lying to me for weeks, Em. Don't ask me to trust you."

He shook his head once, eyes hard. After a moment of silence he left, closing the door quietly behind him. Emmeline stared for a long while, wondering if it was possible she was the one in the wrong after all.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_DUN DUN DUN! I know, I'm such a drama llama. Hopefully this jam-packed chapter makes up for the fact it's a little late._

_As ever, thank you all for the support in favourites, alerts and reviews. Although there seems to be a lot of the two former and less of the latter. Not that I'm complaining, but it'd be nice to hear from those that do favourite or add alerts what they think of the story, even if it's only to let me know that they're enjoying it. So do feel free to drop me a line, folks. It can be a little bit disheartening to see some fifty+ views on a chapter and only two reviews to show for it.  
><em>_  
>Anyway, little moan over. The next few chapters all happen pretty close together on the time line so I'll be trying to get them up quickly enough to reflect that. So until then.<br>_


	12. Chapter 12

Upon waking the next morning, Emmeline exited her room cautiously to find that her father was not home. _Thank goodness._ After last night, she was unsure if she could face him. He'd been so angry, and so... insistent. Looking out of the window, she noticed the stables were a riot of activity, no doubt in preparation for receiving the carriages of the ball guests.

The ball... Septimus would surely be in attendance for that. Emmeline bit her lip, her doubts from the night before resurfacing. Perhaps that was why he'd left... maybe there was someone else. Someone who might actually deserve their role as a princess. This someone else... Someone he'd... no. She shook her head as if physically ridding herself of the thought. No, she shouldn't allow herself to think of that. Not just now, at least.

Carefully avoiding the stables, Emmeline made her way to the woods. She needed time to think with a clear head, time away from her father and the others. Being in the woods reminded her of travelling, and she walked without purpose or direction for a long while.

Joane and her father were just trying to protect her, she knew. But she didn't _need_ protecting. She enjoyed Septimus's company, she felt safe. For every story she heard of his apparent misdeeds she could tell two of his good deeds to her. And it had been innocent, at first. Just the two of them appreciating the other's sword skills. He said his brothers would never practice with him because they feared him getting better, or even besting them.

That reminded her of his royal stature. He was, above all things, a prince. Even if he did care for her... Emmeline knew the way that Stormhold's royalty worked. She could not change it. It frightened her, but it was the way it had always been in Stormhold. _A prince is still a man_, she reminded herself. _And I like the man I know_.

But Joane seemed so _sure._ Could she have missed something? Had she been stupid, trusting him, befriending him? Was Septimus just playing with her? Her thoughts went back to the sword he had given her, and she wondered if it was possible she'd read him wrong. Perhaps he did just want her to fight with a better sword. It would benefit him too, after all. And...

Some folks are left alone for a reason, Joane had said. With the strength of both her father and Joane's reaction to her admission, Emmeline could not help but doubt herself. Taking no notice of where her feet were carrying her, she continued to walk.

* * *

><p><em>Idiot.<em>

Septimus stared moodily out of his window, cursing his behaviour the previous day. He hadn't meant to kiss her. He'd wanted to, of course he had, but he'd always held back. Or tried to. But being so close... and the absolute submission in her face and voice... he hadn't been able to hold back.

Well, the ice had definitely melted. He wondered if that would please Una, wherever she was.

He let out an exasperated sigh, remembering the shock on Emmeline's face. Remembering the haste in which he'd left, angry at himself, furious at his lack of control. He hadn't wanted to frighten her. But caring for her when his brothers were still alive... it would only put her in danger. Make her a target.

He'd said she was safe, hadn't he? Right now it seemed he was the only thing she needed protection from.

_She kissed me back, though._

Oh yes. As if he could forget those lips. As if he didn't remember their softness against his own, or the tender touches of her hands. And that blush that never failed to delight him.

Septimus ran a hand through his hair, frowning. Perhaps he shouldn't have left. It was always easier to run, but she deserved more. At least an explanation. A warning. He stifled a groan as he wondered what she was thinking. If he had hurt her, frightened her with his sudden advances and equally sudden departure. If she —stars forbid it— wouldn't want to see him again.

"Fool," he snarled at himself. "Stupid, incompetent fool."

"Though I would be the first to agree with the sentiment, I confess that I am intrigued as to why you have admitted it to yourself."

Whirling round, Septimus found Secundus and Tertius standing in the doorway. Tertius grinned nervously at him; an icy dislike glittered in Secundus's eyes. It was the elder brother who had spoken, and Septimus chastised himself for voicing his irritation.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

Secundus bridled slightly. "Always so impolite, Septimus. I mean, _really._"

"Get out." He turned away to the window and, looking down, saw Primus striding across the courtyard. He heard someone step forward and turned back. Though now in his room, his two brothers still stood close to the doors, wary. And rightfully so.

"But we came with an invitation, brother." Secundus's voice was dangerously light.

Septimus crossed his arms over his chest and regarded his elder brother with distaste. An invitation. After their last conversation, he could not imagine that meaning anything good.

"To what?"

It was Tertius who answered him, childish excitement clear in his broad face. "We're having a race. Primus is off to fetch the horses."

A sharp nod from Secundus confirmed it.

"'Course," continued Tertius, seemingly unaware of the tension between his brothers, "I won't be riding Treacle." He nodded sadly, eyebrows raised. "Poor thing's gone over her leg, an' Whyte says—"

_Treacle._ Only Tertius would name his horse Treacle. Primus's Dixon was cutting it close with regards to propriety, but Treacle was a whole new level of ridiculous.

"I'm not coming," Septimus answered sharply, cutting through Tertius's worried monologue. His brother looked hurt by the interruption, before he glanced up at Secundus.

His older brother moved towards him. Irritation rising, Septimus tightened his grip on his sword handle.

"Of course you're coming, brother," said Secundus swiftly. "Primus has gone to fetch the horses. We couldn't have him sending that horrid beast of yours back, could we?"

Septimus glared at him.

"And then there's Tertius..." He threw a jovial arm around his younger brother, who lapped up the attention. "Poor, sweet Tertius..." The man in question grinned. "He was _so_ hoping you would join us."

Secundus knocked his shoulder, prompting him to talk. "Needs four of us to really have any sort of competition, Sep," agreed Tertius quickly, warming to his role. "Well, it'd be better with more but..." He giggled nervously, his eyes darting between his brothers. "We've only got four now..."

_Sep._ Really, the man was unbearable. Harmless, yes, but it was a matter of _taste_.

"As much as I hate upsetting poor, sweet Tertius," Septimus made sure the last three words were punctuated with venom. Gullible as he was, even Tertius didn't deserve to be used in such a fashion. "I have declined your offer. Now go."

Secundus was glaring balefully at him. "You have better things to do?"

"Than associate with you?" Septimus gave him a bored look. "Always, Secundus."

There was hatred in the man's eyes, though he carefully pushed it away as he stepped forward. "You will come, Septimus," he asserted calmly. "It was father's idea, not ours. The winner is to be guest of honour at the ball tonight."

Scowling, Septimus eyed Tertius questioningly. He simply shrugged in response. "It's true. Father told Primus to do it this morning."

That changed things. He couldn't very well ignore his father's orders. As a child he'd learnt better than that. Learnt quickly, too, or paid the price. Defeated, he nodded curtly.

"I will change, then."

Secundus gave him a long look, one which Septimus did not like at all. "But I am sure father would not begrudge you the morning if you had... something else... to do," he said carefully.

Damn the man. Always trying to find out what he was up to — clearly he was still as suspicious as he had been a few days ago. _If he goes anywhere near Emmeline because of me..._ Well, it merely strengthened his resolve to warn Emmeline why he could not care for her. Or should not, at least. Septimus let his face reflect nothing of his thoughts.

"As I say, I will change."

Tertius recognised the finality in his brother's voice. "We'll see you in the courtyard, Sep. Try not to be long."

Secundus was still staring at Septimus, who returned the glare emotionlessly. As Tertius tugged at his elder brother's arm, Secundus broke the eye contact and pushed his younger brother away.

"Don't touch me," he snapped. Tertius held his hands up before him, apologising quickly. Secundus pointed him outside, and he went without argument. Secundus, following, paused in the doorway and turned back to Septimus.

"In the courtyard, _Sep_." Loathing clear on his face as he spat out the nickname in a mockery of Tertius's cheery words. "Try not to be long."

* * *

><p>Secundus won the race, much to Septimus's displeasure. Scowling, he had offered his polite congratulations nonetheless, comforting himself with the thought that his heart had not really been in the competition anyway, too much occupied with the events of last night. So when the victorious Secundus insisted on returning to prepare for the ball, Septimus felt safe in taking advantage of his brother's set whereabouts to sort out his own unfinished business. <em>Emmeline.<em>

After picking up the dead rabbit he'd promised for Neal, Septimus headed for the clearing. Riding high atop Wraith, he found he felt nervous. _What if she...?_ He pushed away the unwelcome thoughts that plagued him. Pulling Wraith to a stop, he jumped down and looked around him. The clearing was empty. Hearing the sound of rapid footsteps, Septimus drew his sword and turned quickly.

"My lord," Neal greeted as he appeared from behind a tree, slightly out of breath. Septimus rolled his eyes and returned his weapon to its scabbard.

"Here." Septimus tossed the nervous boy his rabbit, which he caught easily. "Your pay," he explained. Neal thanked him quickly. Craning his neck, Septimus peered at the trees behind the boy, half-expecting Emmeline to appear on Briar. "Where is she?"

Neal shook his head, eyes wide. "I don't know. Geord sent me to ask _you_, my lord."

Her father had sent the boy? Septimus frowned.

"How does he—" Then Septimus stepped forward, anger rising. "I thought I bought your silence, boy."

Neal took a step back, eyeing the sword at the prince's waist. "You did, my lord, I swear it. But he asked me, told me, to come find you. He doesn't know where Em is. No-one does."

He could have questioned how Geord knew of their acquaintance, but more important matters demanded his attention. Emmeline was... lost? _Secundus hasn't..._ Septimus frowned, feeling foolish again. No, this had nothing to do with Secundus — it was his own fault. He had frightened her. And she'd ran. Of course. He cursed himself. He regarded the small boy silently for a moment, sorry for his previous harsh words. Emmeline liked the boy; despite everything he would do better not to scare him.

"And you haven't seen her?" he asked in a gentler tone. Neal shook his head and Septimus sighed. Damn it. "I'm going to ask you to do something else for me, Neal." The boy's eyes widened at Septimus using his first name, but he nodded eagerly.

"Anythin', my lord."

"Keep an eye out here." He gestured around the clearing. "If you don't see her tonight, come to the castle and find me." Septimus fixed the boy with an even look. "Can I trust you to do that?"

Neal nodded again. "Of course, my lord."

"You're a good boy, Neal," said Septimus gratefully. He found the surprise on the boy's face almost comical, before thoughts of Emmeline sobered him.

Dismissing Neal, he strode back to Wraith with Emmeline still on his mind. If he could, he'd go immediately, but he'd have to make an appearance at this bloody ball. Scowling, he turned Wraith and began the ride to the castle.

* * *

><p>The banquet hall had been richly decorated by the evening; bright tapestries adorned the walls, ornate carvings weighed down the tables, and hundreds of candles threw dim, flickering light across the floor. A great fire burned merrily in large fireplace at the foot of the hall, the flames lending themselves to the lighting. The tables that ran almost to the length of the room were lavishly stocked with multitudes of fine foods and wines, brown-smocked servants milling amongst the excited guests with trays and goblets.<p>

And the guests themselves... The crowd was a veritable rainbow of colours, ranging from soft pastel shades of yellows and greens to the intense brightness of shining reds and blues. The women wore soft silks and muslin, their dresses seemingly competing to have the most frills or biggest bustle. Large hairpieces balanced precariously atop carefully plucked and painted faces. For the men, extravagant frock-coats and costly jerkins of padded linens and crushed velvets were commonplace, in an equally eye-watering display of colours. Lords and ladies had travelled from every corner of Stormhold to be present tonight, and it seemed no-one wanted to be caught looking any less than their most expensive.

At the head table, Septimus sat next to Primus; Secundus and Tertius took their seats on the other side of the king. All were resplendent in their best clothes, clean and fresh and groomed after their morning's ride. Secundus looked every inch the perfect prince in costly red fabrics and gaudy jewellery. Primus looked as smart as ever in his usual purple garments and even Tertius had scrubbed up well. Septimus wore his usual understated black, and sat twisting distractedly at the signet ring on his right hand.

A small fanfare sounded and Septimus looked past Primus to his father. Though the king did not stand as tall as he used to, and the face beneath the crown was more lined and slightly pinched, he was still an intimidating figure. Tonight his rich robes were heavy with gold, and a shining red ruby on a chain caught the candlelight as the king stood to welcome his guests, by now hurriedly seating themselves.

"My dear, dear friends..." The king began, smiling at the room.

Friends? Not likely. Ignoring the rest of his father's speech, Septimus found himself looking around the room, scanning the faces of these so-called friends. Some he recognised, others he did not. None of them particularly interested him. As he looked to the side, a brown-smocked servant caught his eye and pointed towards a side room. Septimus frowned. The servant pointed again, more urgently, but Septimus returned his attention to his father for another moment.

"... I present my second son, champion rider of his brothers." Septimus threw a glance down the table and saw Secundus accepting the polite applause with a large smile before the king continued. "Come, Secundus, you will lead the dance."

The king dropped heavily back into his chair, the brief relief on his face so telling of his illness. Primus laid a hand on his father's arm concernedly, but he batted it away. Thankfully, Secundus's descent onto the dance floor drew more eyes than the top table as he strode immediately to a young blonde mistress, swathed in soft cerise silks. The excited young girl quickly offered her hand, which he took and kissed for longer than was strictly necessary.

_The shameless lech_, thought Septimus disgustedly.

As the music began, Secundus drew the young woman into a spirited waltz and it did not take long before the floor started to fill. Uninterested, Septimus found his eyes darting back to the servant. What did the man want? Was there news of Emmeline? The servant tilted his head to the side door and Septimus knew he should follow.

"Well, brother. Shall we go down before Secundus has had his pick of the beauties?"

Septimus turned to find Primus standing beside his chair, an amiable smile on his face. Tertius was already halfway across the dance floor, headed for a young woman he had been making eyes at for the duration of his father's speech. Secundus was already dancing with a different partner, his attention as brief as usual. Septimus shook his head, getting to his feet.

"No. No, I have something to attend to first."

The king looked up at that, taking his eyes off the dance floor. Dressed up in all his finery, it was hard to see the man had been ill. His dark eyes were bright as he regarded his youngest son questioningly.

"Rushing off, Septimus? Without even setting foot on the dance floor?"

Septimus inclined his head politely. "Forgive me, father. There is someone I must speak to."

"Speak to, Septimus? This is a ball." He raised his arms and gestured at the packed hall. Septimus watched as Primus took the hand of a red-gowned woman and led her to the dance floor, smiling gently at something she said. "This is a time for _dancing_."

Irritated, Septimus tried not to let it show on his face. Dancing? There were more important things than dancing. _If Emmeline is still not back..._ He ran a distracted eye over the guests again, not altogether comfortable with some of the hopeful glances thrown in his direction. Dizzy little girls with the idea of a tiara in their heads. A crown seemed to be a powerful aphrodisiac for some of them. He frowned, turning back to his father.

"I will return," he said shortly, with a quick bow. He made his way over to the side door the servant had indicated and went into the small chamber. The man was waiting for him.

"My lord Septimus," he began, "I am sorry to—"

"Get on with it."

"There is a boy, my lord, asking for you. I told him to leave but he insists."

Neal, thank goodness. "Let him through."

The servant hurried away, returning only moments later with Neal. The young boy walked into the chamber with his chin up, gazing in amazement at his opulent surroundings. Septimus strode toward him, quickly dismissing the servant. Neal gave the prince a hurried bow.

"Well?" Septimus asked impatiently. "What news have you for me?"

"She's not back yet, my lord." The boy looked worried. "I've asked around, too. Merrin said she saw her goin' for the woods, but that was this mornin'." Neal scratched at his head. "An' Briar's still stabled."

Damn it. So she was on foot. Well, at least that increased his chances of finding her. He'd start at the woods, then; she'd be easy enough to track. This whole damn mess was his own fault anyway. He'd scared her, pushed her too far. Then left. He cursed himself again. He should have stayed, at least to explain himself, instead of running away like a frightened boy. One more fault to add to his ever-growing list. He regarded Neal silently for a few moments, wondering what to do.

"Get back to the stables," he ordered, having made his decision. "Saddle Wraith and lead him to the woods. Go there quickly and speak to no-one." Septimus turned away as he heard the music from the hall stop. Surely his father wasn't going to... The musicians soon struck up a new song and he relaxed, turning back to face Neal. "Go, then. I will meet you there."

Neal nodded and darted away. After a pause, Septimus slipped out of the room himself. He'd find her. It was his fault and he'd put it right. Tell her he was a fool and apologise. Promise to stay away from her, urge her to keep her distance. With Secundus sniffing around it was dangerous enough to spar, let alone grow fond of her. He'd tell her that. He wouldn't like it, but he'd do it. To be safe was the very least she deserved.

But... she had kissed him back. Surely that wasn't just out of a sense of obligation. After all, she'd never treated him any different for his royal standing. Perhaps... His mind drifted back to her blushes, her downcast eyes... _And she kissed me back_. Perhaps... if she really did feel... Septimus would not allow himself to finish the thought. Either way it was foolish. Dangerous.

_But maybe worth it?_ a small voice asked.

His frown deepened as he cast the thought away. He had to find her first.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _Happy birthday, Mark Strong! How strange that his birthday falls upon what is not only my usual upload day (Tuesday) but a Septimus-centric chapter. Oh, the serendipity. And if you multiply the chapter number (twelve) by the number of surviving brothers in the story (four) then you have forty-eight, which is his age today. THE STARS HAVE ALIGNED, GUYS. (Or I have far too much time on my hands to figure things like this out...)_

_So... what else do I have to say today...? I've realised that Neal is the most incredibly useful character, and that I shamelessly bully Tertius whenever he's in the story. Sorry, Tertius. It's nothing personal. Also, writing for Septimus and Secundus is, as ever, loads of fun._

_Again, thanks for favourites, alerts and reviews. The next few chapters have been slightly challenging to write so your support is incredibly appreciated as I slog through them. Let me know what you think!_


	13. Chapter 13

The afternoon had melted into early evening as Emmeline had been walking and it had been getting darker for a while. Though she had her dagger, she looked nervously at the surrounding trees, none of which she recognised. A little fear hit her and she pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders. Now she was really regretting her hasty decision to leave, even just for a chance to wander and think things over: a chance that had spawned little more than a growing nervousness. She had been far too caught up in her contemplations to really watch where she was going. _Stupid, stupid_. Though the sun had not yet set, a darkness was creeping around the forest and she cursed herself for rushing off.

But... she couldn't face her father again, could she? Not without seeing Septimus first. But then there was another situation she had no idea how to handle, another situation it was easier to just run from. _Easier, but maybe not wiser._

She stood still for a moment, trying to get her bearings. The trees on either side of her offered no clues so she tried to remember what the merchants on the caravan had taught her about finding her way.

"The North star," she muttered under her breath. "Of course."

Casting her eyes upwards, it was a few seconds before she found the North star in the darkening sky and was able to work out roughly where she was. She sighed, not realising how far she had strayed. Even though he had been angry, her father would be worried now. _I can deal with worry,_ she told herself. Glancing back up at the star, she gathered together her thoughts and began the route back.

It was not long before the sound of hooves startled her and she ran from the road, drawing her dagger out of reflex. Crouching, she sheltered near a bush and waited for the horse to come closer. As it neared, she saw the horse was large and dark and a stab of fear went through her. Then her breath hitched in her throat when she saw the rider. Septimus. When he had passed her, she stepped from the bushes and faced him; Septimus's head turned at the movement and he halted Wraith. He turned the horse and moved it back toward her, his frown deep and his mouth a thin line. He stopped the horse and looked down at her.

"Where have you been?" he demanded roughly.

No greeting, of course. He sounded angry. _He's angry? After he was the one who left?_ Irritation rose in her and she frowned, slamming her dagger back into her belt and beginning to walk again without meeting his eyes. She didn't know what to say, or how he would respond. The mood he had turned up in was not exactly promising. And as if she didn't feel foolish enough — of all the people to find her...

"Your father is looking for you," he informed her crossly, nudging his horse into a slow trot to keep up. "I met Neal at the clearing."

Her father was looking for her? Out of worry or anger, she did not know. But if Septimus had met Neal... Emmeline shot him a sideways look. He'd went to the clearing today? After... what had happened? She felt foolish again for wandering off, but pushed it away. Another glance up at his stony face confirmed that she could not speak to him. Not what she wanted to say, at least, because he would surely shun it. Again, she kept her silence.

"I thought you'd stopped running from things, Whyte." His voice was snide; it was an obvious attempt to get a rise from her. She ignored it, and heard him clear his throat. When he next spoke, his voice was a little less harsh. "Do you have any idea how worried... how worried Neal was?"

She did not trust herself to speak right then. Had he almost said he was worried? Surely not. So she instead focussed on Neal, focussed on a subject that did not tear at her heart quite so hungrily. "Did you give him his rabbit?" she asked dully.

Septimus looked like he was going to argue at her irrelevant question, but he let out an exasperated breath and answered anyway.

"Yes. Yes, I gave him the rabbit. What does it matter?"

Emmeline did not reply. He brought his horse to a stop and jumped down from the saddle, moving to stand before her, halting her in her steps. She bit her lip, still uncertain despite the quickening beat of her heart. Septimus's jaw was set and his eyes were narrowed; he looked furious. His dark eyebrows were together in a deep frown and, remembering her father's words, she wondered how many people had seen this anger and lived.

"Emmeline."

In stark contrast to his face and previous words, his voice was soft. Looking closer, she saw the set of his jaw weaken, and his eyes grow gentler. Not anger, but worry tempered by his familiar irritation. He had not called her by her first name before. _I think I like it._ She met his gaze, her heart pounding fast at the close proximity.

"I am sorry," he said softly. "Truly."

There was sincerity in his tone, but she did not know exactly for what he was apologising. For leaving, or for kissing her in the first place? He noticed her hesitation, and he frowned.

"What is wrong?"

What was wrong? He knew, he had to know. Without answering, she made to turn away. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her round, regarding her with his head cocked to the side. She met his gaze again, determined to offer him that at least.

"You tell me," she said shakily. "Tell me why my father worries for me, _my lord_."

Septimus's eyes hardened at the use of his title, but he understood what she was asking.

"I have no power over court gossips," he spat, forgetting himself.

He was so close she could smell him; a faint hint of musk and leather touched her nose. His presence was all she could focus on now, surrounding her, enveloping her in all that was him.

"But you..." Septimus shook her gently now. "You told me that you weren't scared of me."

There was something in his eyes that looked like hurt, but it was gone before she could confirm it. She kept his gaze, but spoke in a whisper.

"I'm not."

"Yet I see fear in your eyes."

She looked away. The fear was not hers... "I fear I'm wrong," she admitted. "My father, Joane... they say..."

"What?" He gripped her shoulders tighter, almost painfully. "What do they say, what whispers do you hear down in your little kitchen, out in the stalls of the stables? What do they call me?"

"They call you..." Her voice faltered. "They call you a m... m..."

His eyes narrowed; he spat his next word. "Murderer?"

"Monster," she whispered.

Septimus caught her gaze and she saw a flash of anger there before something else took over: sadness. It was quickly hidden though, his jaw tightening and his hands removing themselves from her shoulders to clench at his sides.

"Will I tell you why I kissed you?" he asked suddenly. Without waiting for her to respond, he stepped back. Emmeline noticed the chill of the air again, no longer comforted by the close heat of his body.

"I was brought up in the cold stone rooms of a castle knowing that I would have to fight," Septimus said slowly, not looking at her. "That I would have to kill to win, to earn my father's favour; that I would have to be bigger, better, stronger." Each item was listed off bitterly, disdainfully. "And more of a... a monster than the rest of them. That was my future. I was, and am, little better than an instrument of my father's amusement."

He paused, then turned back to Emmeline. His dark eyes were unreadable. "And the object of everyone else's fear."

"But then you." A mocking smile flashed across his face, more of a grimace than anything. "Bold little Emmeline Whyte with her sword and her bag full of medicine, and I'm treated like a man." He met her gaze then, and she saw the gratitude there. His voice came faster with his next words, more urgent. "Not a prince, not a monster, but a man." After a moment of silence, he continued quietly. "You remind me of that, and it makes everything a little more bearable. So I seized it."

Emmeline heard the harsh edges of his bitter voice and saw his fallen shoulders. Any triumph she felt at being right was offset by the sympathy she felt for him, the wonder that he had even admitted it to her, that he'd felt something too. Septimus of Stormhold stood before her, honest and irritated and open. And her heart beat fast for him.

"But you left," she countered just as quietly. "I thought you... regretted what you'd done."

He winced. "I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have kissed you. It was unfair, and I am sorry for that."

A small smile curled Emmeline's lips and she stepped closer. "_I'm_ not." His eyes widened slightly. "I kissed you back, didn't I?"

"Regardless," he stated after a difficult pause. Frowning, he seemed to struggle with his thoughts, before his face hardened and he spoke with new purpose. "It is foolish."

"You're not a fool for feeling something," she said gently, thinking his reluctance stemmed from his hard-hearted pretence. A pretence he had just dropped for her.

"I'm a fool for for feeling anything," he barked, suddenly angry again. Then he sighed. "Emmeline, you know what I am." Emotions flitted across his face. "You know what I will become. What I will have to do." He looked away as if ashamed, but then he turned back to her, more resolve in his expression than shame. "And I will do it. I will fight for my throne, whatever that makes me."

As if she could forget the truth behind the rumours, the measures that needed to be taken to ensure the throne. As if she hadn't lain awake thinking about how she could possibly be comfortable with befriending such a man, let alone feeling something for him. But she'd made that decision long ago, hadn't she? And he still seemed determined to treat her as an idiot. She glared at him.

"Of course I do," she snapped back, "Did you think I hadn't considered it? That I'd forgotten? I know what you are, Se—" She paused, uncertain of calling him by name. Saying it to her father was one thing, but to his face... She had not said it before.

"Say it, then." His eyes were dark, his voice low. "Say it."

She stared at him for a moment, her fleeting anger tempered by a little uncertainty. He stepped closer.

"Say my name," he growled. "You don't say it, do you? If you know what I am, _use my name_." The last three words were each punctuated with a heavy breath, his tone dangerous. "Maybe you're scared to."

At this final taunt she met his gaze coolly, ashamed of her earlier hesitation but irritated that he would use it as evidence of her indecision. "Septimus," she stated unflinchingly. "Prince Septimus of Stormhold."

His eyes flashed as she used his name; whether it was pleasure or anger she could not tell. _Maybe it's a bit of both_.

"Yes," he said finally. "One of four surviving princes of Stormhold. There can only be one king. And there is only one way to secure my succession." His voice lost a little of its rough edge. "You think I want that for you? It puts you in danger. I will not let you—"

"Don't you dare," she said, anger rising as she cut across him. "Don't you dare try to protect me, you arrogant..." She stopped, breathing heavily to calm herself. Calling him by name was one thing, but insulting him was probably too far for one night. Her next words were quick but firm. "When you fight me, you don't trouble yourself with easing your blows, do you? You trust me to handle myself. I've got scars that testify to that. So don't you dare change now. I'm not helpless."

Septimus was still glaring at her. _He's angry because I'm right,_ she thought with undisguised triumph. Then she knew she had to say it, at least so he could hear it for himself.

"I know what you are, Septimus." How sweet his name tasted on her tongue now. "I can't say I care for it, but I know you, and I do care for the man I know."

Something softened in his face then but he looked away from her. He sighed, raised a hand to move his hair back from his forehead. His lips were set in a thin line when he looked back at her again. She saw the conflict in his dark green eyes and stepped closer.

"Emmeline..." he said softly, warningly. She looked up into his face, felt her heart skip despite his carefully blank expression. "You're right. But the reason I don't ease my blows when we fight... that's only because you told me not to."

An idea came to her when he admitted that. Emboldened, she stepped closer so there was only an inch or so between them. Septimus was still regarding her, his face unreadable.

"So you trust my judgement?" she asked quietly.

"I do." The edge of his lips twitched slightly.

"Well..." Emmeline tilted her chin so she was looking into his eyes, the dark green pools that she'd already seen so much in tonight. Yes, the decision was made. "Kiss me then, Septimus of Stormhold."

The smile she'd seen fighting its way onto his face broadened as Septimus lowered his head to meet hers. She felt his hand gently alight on the side of her neck as he pressed closer to her. When his lips touched hers, she was surprised at the softness of them, at how tentative his movements were this time. She relaxed into the kiss, her hands resting lightly on his chest. When he pulled away, his eyes were wide but his hand still lingered at her neck. Emmeline raised her hand to touch his face, the palm cupping his cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered to him.

He allowed her a quick smile. "You are a stubborn woman, Emmeline Whyte."

Her thumb ghosted over the small silver scar high on his cheekbone from the first night they'd met, and his words then came back to her. She pressed a gentle kiss to his jawline. "Evidently."

Chuckling when he recognised his own reply from so long ago, Septimus's face relaxed. He shook his head at her, stepping back; his gaze was content, at peace, and it heartened her.

Tearing her eyes from his face, she looked down and then frowned as if seeing him for the first time. Underneath his battered riding cloak, he wore the high-collared black velvet tunic that he favoured with the double row of seven-stamped buttons. A dark cravat was knotted around his neck. Formal clothes. The ball. She met his gaze again, this time questioningly.

"I thought there was a ball tonight. You didn't..."

Septimus spread his hands. "I've no great love for such things. Besides," he added, a smile touching his lips, "The only lady I dance with keeps a sword in her hand."

Emmeline smiled back at him. This was who she'd seen in the stables that first night, the man whom she'd known was there. This charming, lonely man in the guise of a bloody prince. There was no monster.

"Do we still... dance, then?" he asked. At her nod, he grinned and moved towards her. As she imagined his lips on hers again, something in the sky caught his attention. Still smiling slightly, he turned back towards his horse as if struck by an idea. When he'd pulled himself onto Wraith, he settled back on the saddle and held out a hand. "Come with me. I would show you something."

Emmeline let herself be helped onto the big horse and settled comfortably into the saddle, Septimus pressing warmly against her back as he leaned forward to flick the reins.

They rode in a relaxed silence back through the woods. The rhythm of the horse made Septimus knock into her with a steady thump, like a heartbeat, and it was soothing. She let herself lean backwards into his chest, and felt his arms grow tighter around her. _This is what safe feels like,_ she thought. Before long they had reached the stables, but Septimus did not call on Wraith to stop.

"Where are we going?" asked Emmeline, twisting round to see his face.

He gave nothing away as he nodded at the road ahead. "You'll see."

Always the mystery. The dark was settling in at the edges of Stormhold as the evening drew on. Emmeline wondered if her father had guessed where she was, who she was with. After a while, she felt Septimus lean closer into her back and realised they were going uphill. She looked around and realised where they were: Nettle Hill.

"Go on, Wraith!" Septimus urged the horse, as they pushed upwards along the track. It was not a steep slope, but even for a horse of Wraith's size two passengers was a burden. Especially since he'd already been racing earlier in the day.

As much as Nettle Hill was not a large hill, it afforded a good view of the Stormhold mountains to the east. Emmeline had fond memories of picnics spent up here with her parents, of adventures with her friends as a child. And, more recently, fond memories of a certain prince riding off on a hunt.

When they reached the top, Septimus jumped from the horse. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her down and strode closer to the edge. When he turned to her his dark hair had fallen across his forehead; he blew it off irritably. There was no worry in his face now, only a curious contentment.

"Do you know, someone told me the sunset is beautiful from here."

Emmeline, smiling, turned away from him and looked into the sunset. Tendrils of orange twisted around the Stormhold mountains, and they shone with a yellow warmth. The soft blues of the sky hung behind them, with red streaks through it. She turned back to him. He stood with his arms folded across his chest but his eyes were warm; she held his gaze.

"It is," she whispered, loving the small smirk that answered her.

He strode to her side then, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. His arms were still crossed as if he was uncertain what to do with them, so she merely rested a hand on the crook of his elbow. They watched the sun set in silence. The mountains were outlined only with a gentle orange glow when Septimus next spoke.

"When you told me that —about the sunset— I think that's when I knew you weren't scared of me."

She turned her head to look up at him. He was looking down at her, his familiar half-smile pulling at his lips.

Smiling, she took a wrist in each hand and gently unfolded his arms from his chest, stepping into the gap between them. "I should have known I didn't need to be."

She gently pressed her lips against his, and felt his arms rising until his fingers twisted into her dark hair to bring her closer. He dropped his hands to cup her face, deepening the kiss as his palms lay roughly against her skin. Every gentle, open movement told her she was right to trust him, right to befriend him, right to care for him; so brilliantly, wonderfully right. When they finally broke away from one another, Septimus held her shoulders and regarded her strangely. Moving back into his embrace, she rested her head against his chest. He tensed slightly.

"What's wrong?"

She heard him sigh at her question, felt his chest rise and then fall under her cheek.

"I worry for you," he said simply. "Even before... this... I worried for you."

Emmeline stepped away from him then, turning to face him with a deep frown. He realised she was about to argue and stepped forward, a hand raised to stop her.

"No, don't. I trust you, Emmeline, but I don't trust my brothers." He shook his head bitterly. "If they knew of you... They would use you against me, and I could not forgive myself that."

_Ah._ "And you think I don't worry for you, too?" she asked gently.

He shook his head again. "That's outwith your hands, though. If you were hurt it would be my fault."

She smiled crookedly. "My father would love to hear you admit that."

Septimus frowned and looked away into the darkening sky. "Your father..." he repeated. Emmeline cursed herself for unthinkingly saying it. "Your father is still looking for you, Emmeline. He sent Neal to find me."

Emmeline winced slightly at the questioning tone of Septimus's voice. "I told him about the sparring. And... what happened yesterday." She met his gaze, but then looked away. "I don't know if he was more hurt than angry."

A terse nod was the only reply from Septimus. "I should take you back, then. I said I would return too, but I wanted to know you were safe."

Moving forward, she took his hands in her own. "I am now." And she'd make her father see it, somehow.

"And I will keep you safe," Septimus vowed to her, his voice serious. "I swear it."

He looked at her for a long time then, simply taking in all of her that he could. Emmeline smiled gently at him, wondering how he could make something as simple as a look so enthralling and intense. His lip curled slightly and she knew that he would keep her safe, that he'd meant every word.

"We should go back now." Septimus interrupted her thoughts with his calm voice. She nodded, suddenly feeling tired. Stifling a yawn, she let Septimus lead her over to Wraith. After tonight, she thought she might just let him lead her anywhere.

* * *

><p>"I will leave you here," he announced in her ear. Looking around, she saw they had almost arrived at the clearing they normally fought at. Septimus pulled Wraith to a halt and set his hand on her shoulder. "I would take you further," he said, glancing around at the dark trees. "But if anyone is still looking for you... I think you'll agree that it wouldn't do for us to be seen together."<p>

_Of course_. She sighed, moving to dismount from Wraith, but he stopped her gently.

"Emmeline, where's your sword?"

She glanced down at the small dagger on her belt, the source of his frown. She shrugged, not wanting to admit how she'd doubted his intentions with regards to his gift, and he frowned back at her.

"Carry the sword I gave you when you can," he ordered. "I'll feel better knowing you're armed."

"I'll do what I can," she answered. His face relaxed slightly. "Will I see you tomorrow?"

A moment of quiet as he considered her question. "Come to the clearing in the early afternoon," he said finally. She nodded and made to get down from the horse, but Septimus's hand tightening on her shoulder stopped her. When she turned to him, he was regarding her with a strange look.

"Say it again," he said suddenly, and she knew what he wanted.

"Septimus," she indulged him. "Goodnight, Septimus."

She was about to slip from the saddle when she felt his fingers grasp her hip; her stomach fluttered at the contact. This time when she turned his eyes were playful and he bent to meet her lips in a lingering kiss. When he broke away, he let her down. He shrugged slightly when she looked up at him, an eyebrow raised in question.

"I like it when you say my name."

Shaking her head, Emmeline bid him farewell. He was a strange man. _My strange man_. The thought made her lips curl into a grin.

She was still smiling when she reached the clearing, but her expression froze as she noticed the figure already there. The darkness did not allow her to recognise who it was. Stopping in her tracks, she felt for the dagger at her belt and tensed. But it was too late, for the figure had already seen her.

"Em?" came the rough question. Immediately she relaxed; they knew her. She dropped her hand from the knife's handle and allowed the figure to reach her. As soon as they came into view, however, she found her hand drawing her dagger and her heart pounding fast.

"Arnyd? What the_—_?"

The man was glaring at her as he strode nearer. He was still wearing his soldier's uniform, with a dark cloak draped around his shoulders. "Where the hell have you_ been_?" he shouted upon reaching her. "Have you any idea how long..." Then something changed in his expression, something sly entered his manner and she felt a little fear. His eyes darted to the trees and his lip curled. "Wait. You were with _him_, weren't you?"

'Him' could only mean one person when it was uttered in that tone. "What's it to you?" she snapped quickly. At the disgust on the man's face, she felt her own anger rising. Hadn't he said he'd stay away from her? That he was sorry?_ And more fool me, I believed him_. "You're not changed at all, Arnyd. Why'd you even bother apologising?"

Arnyd let out a humourless laugh, one she'd heard many times before. She tensed, but took comfort in the presence of her dagger, sturdy in her hand. Arnyd strode closer, his face twisted in fury.

"Why don't you ask your prince, bitch?" he snarled at her. "Ask _him_ why I apologised instead of you."

Emmeline frowned, forgetting the situation for a moment. _Septimus — he didn't..._ Either way, it didn't matter now. Arnyd was still glaring at her, his brown eyes narrow and his breath heavy. But there was nothing about the man to suggest that he had been drinking, and Emmeline found herself wondering why he'd been waiting at the clearing for her.

"Why are you here, Arnyd?" she asked, trying to keep her tone even.

He was shaking his head now. "You don't even deserve to know. God knows you probably won't care."

"What are you talking about?" She found she felt nervous despite herself. Not for Arnyd, but for the unfamiliar worry in his face she could see as he skirted around the issue. "What's happened?"

"No-one knew where you were," Arnyd continued, ignoring her. "That boy Neal was looking everywhere for you. He came to the barracks. I said I might have an idea..."

Emmeline felt her heart clench. Why would Neal be looking...? _No._ She met Arnyd's accusing brown eyes, not even caring about the anger she saw in them.

"What's happened?" she repeated slowly. Arnyd smirked at her tone, and she knew he was enjoying prolonging her discomfort. She stepped towards him. "Arnyd, _please_."

Begging had never worked before, but she was too worried to care. Heart beating fast, she waited for his reply. Arnyd's next words confirmed her worst fears.

"Your father's sick again, Em. He collapsed in the stables, and he's not waking up."

_Oh God._ Emmeline's eyes widened in shock, her body turning cold as she felt guilt wrap its strong hands around her neck. He'd looked so ill, hadn't he? But she'd left him. It seemed her rash decision to leave might cost her more than just her pride...

"Was a night with your prince worth that?" he taunted her, seemingly guessing her thoughts. "Neal told me that you ran off this morning, you selfish bitch." Glee was apparent in the man's tone as he relished the look of abject distress on Emmeline's face. Then he stepped closer, his eyes narrow and calculating. "Maybe if the old man dies you'll remember your place."

Ignoring him, Emmeline turned on her heel and headed for the stables. She heard Arnyd shouting behind her and began to run, not caring when a stitch stabbed in her side and she stumbled over the forest track. Her father was sick, and she could not shake the feeling that it was indeed her fault.

_Oh, father, forgive me._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**_ Whoah, okay. Look who's climbed aboard their drama llama again. _

_First of all, sorry for the time it's taken for an update! Your humble author has been extremely busy with that awful time-consuming thing known as "life". Also, this was a pretty difficult chapter to write but hopefully the content makes up for the big wait. In all honesty, I think longer update times are going to be a more regular thing. I'm trying to get back on track with typing but, as I say, life gets in the way. It has a way of doing that.  
><em>

_Super huge thanks to everyone that's ever clicked any button on the site that sends me an alert, favourite or review. You're all as excellent as Septimus's aim. And that's very excellent. So thank you!  
><em>


	14. Chapter 14

Clutching her father's hand in two of hers, Emmeline closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall. His fingers were cold against her skin, but the gentle rasping breaths assured her that he was stable. At least for now.

Pushing away the fear she felt at his condition, she gripped tighter at his hands. She thought suddenly of her mother then, of her small hands caught between her mother's clammy ones. It had been a fever that had taken her too, a lengthy illness that had weakened and drained her until there was nothing left of the spirited woman Emmeline tried so hard to remember. Opening her eyes, she found her gaze drawn back to her father's worn face.

Beneath his beard, his cheeks looked hollower than usual, and the skin that tanned each year from working outdoors was paler than she would have liked to see it. Though she had sat with him throughout the night, he had not woken. She, on the other hand, had not slept.

There was a stirring against her knee as Neal roused from where he'd fallen asleep leaning against her leg. The boy had refused to leave Geord's side either, remaining throughout the night to help Emmeline mix up drafts of fever relief and administer them. She was thankful for it in a way, for his presence was a quiet comfort to her. _And a reason not to let myself cry._

"Ain't you gonna sleep, Em?" Neal asked, blinking blearily as he pulled himself to his feet.

She allowed him a tight smile. "I'm fine, Neal."

A loud coughing drew her back to the bed. Geord Whyte struggled to sit up, his cheeks reddening as he fought for breath. Grabbing his shoulders, Emmeline thumped his back and helped him lie back into his pillows as the cough subsided. He looked around the room, not seeming to take any of it in.

"Father?" she said quietly.

His pained gaze turned to her. She smiled gently, their argument seeming so long ago that it did not matter. He sighed and reached for her hands, his arms a little shaky.

"Oh, Em," he rasped. "My Em."

She did not let her smile drop even as she saw the shake in his hands, heard the pain in his voice. She moved her hand to his forehead and felt the clammy skin there. He was still fevered, then.

"I'm here, father." Reaching into her bag, she produced a small flask and held it to his lips. "Drink this for me. For the fever."

"I'm not fevered," he protested, sounding more like his old self than he should. There was colour back in his cheeks and his eyes looked more focused, but there was still an air of invalidity about his person.

She shook her head, amazed by his stubbornness. Silently she helped him drink down the mixture, not quite meeting his eyes. He yawned when he'd finished, sinking back into his pillows. Eyelids drooping slowly, he feel back asleep.

Neal came closer to the bed, his face worried. He sat down on the edge of Geord's bed. "Is he okay, then?"

"He's awake," said Emmeline slowly. "Which is..." _More than I thought he'd be?_ She closed her eyes. "... Promising." She opened her eyes and looked to Neal, allowing herself a small smile for the boy's sake. "As is his arguing. I don't like the sound of that cough, though." She did not mention the memories of her ailing mother it had brought with it.

"He was coughin' last night too," Neal said quietly, his eyes on Geord's drawn face. "Sounded bad, it did."

Emmeline frowned, glancing at the boy. "Before he collapsed?"

Neal, who had been helping in the stables at the time of Geord being taken ill, had informed Emmeline of what had happened as soon as she'd arrived back. Late in the evening, her father had been attending to one of the carriages when he'd complained of feeling dizzy. When Neal had tried to take him to sit down his legs had given out beneath him and he'd fallen. One of the older stable hands had carried him to his room but hadn't been able to wake him. Neal had been frantic, looking everywhere for Emmeline, who estimated that at the time of her father's collapse she would have been at Nettle Hill.

_With no idea of how much I was needed here._

"Most of the evenin'," confirmed Neal.

That would explain the raspiness of his breathing, at least. Getting to her feet, Emmeline bent to rest her head against her father's chest. His breath was laboured, rough, and she didn't like the congested sound she heard. Moving back to her chair, she pulled her bag onto her knees and began rooting through it. Neal looked on worriedly.

"What're you lookin' for?"

Emmeline undid the drawstrings of a small pouch and shook the contents out. A few dried up brown stalks tumbled into her outstretched hand. She frowned at them. "Farmer's reed," she muttered in reply. "It's a herb." She shook the bag again. "But I think I'm out."

Neal jumped to his feet and regarded the stalks critically. "Will it help him?"

She shrugged. "A fresh cut might ease any block in his throat."

"Where can I get it?"

Raising her head, Emmeline met Neal's earnest stare. She smiled gently and laid a hand on his shoulder as she stood. "No, Neal. You've done enough. I can get some from the palace gardens. You watch him, now. When he wakes again he should be a bit more orientated. Give him that..." She pointed towards a bottle that sat on the side table. "And send someone for me. I shouldn't be long."

Neal nodded seriously and took up position in Emmeline's vacated chair as the door closed softly behind her.

* * *

><p>Reaching the stables, Septimus made his way through the stalls. He'd been slightly late for their meeting at the clearing, having received a firm reprimand for his desertion of the ball last night from his again bed-ridden father. But he'd finally arrived at the clearing as they had arranged and waited, though there had been no sign of Emmeline. A smile curled his lips to think of her, but it quickly faded. Surely she couldn't have forgotten? A young man carrying a bucket in each hand jumped to see him as he rounded a corner, and Septimus strode to him quickly.<p>

"You there," he hailed him. "Where will I find Whyte?"

The man glanced about him as if for support, but the stables were empty but for the two of them. "Whyte, my lord?" he questioned nervously. "He was taken ill last night."

"No," snapped Septimus impatiently. "The girl." He frowned as he realised what the man had said. "Wait, what?"

"Geord Whyte, my lord, the groom. He was taken ill last night tending to the carriages."

He was ill? Then that was why Emmeline hadn't shown. He relaxed slightly, before snapping back to the man before him. "And the girl?"

The man's brow creased in confusion."Em? I think she's in the palace gardens, my lord. Something about herbs, she said."

No doubt she was gathering something to aid her father's recovery. So she was safe enough, at least for now. Septimus considered the man before him and came to a decision. There was something he had to do.

"Take me to Whyte, then," he ordered the stable hand. "I would see him."

Nodding, the man led him to the far end of the stables, where he pointed him towards the stairs leading to the Whytes' lodgings.

"He's resting, my lord. His is the second room to your right."

A terse nod sufficed as both thanks and dismissal as Septimus turned from the man and made his way toward the room. Opening it, he was surprised by the dullness of the small space, so different to how he imagined Emmeline would keep a sickroom.

"My lord?" Neal looked up in surprise from his position at the foot of the bed. He looked tired, as if he had been sitting through the night. Geord Whyte struggled to sit up, fear and a little anger mingling with the surprise in his lined face.

It was obvious to Septimus that he had interrupted a conversation, but he looked only to the boy. "Will you leave us, please, Neal?"

He must have caught the seriousness in his tone, for he nodded immediately and darted from the room.

Septimus let his gaze return to Emmeline's father. There was something in the man's now tensed posture that reminded him of Emmeline's fighting stance, but otherwise there was not much resemblance. From what he knew of Whyte's care in the stables, he suspected that she had inherited his kind nature more than any physical resemblance. Now, though, there was little kindness in the man's bearded face as he regarded the prince, his tired eyes narrow.

Septimus moved toward the bed. He clenched his hand at his side, unsure if he should offer it in handshake. Deciding against it, he merely bowed his head sharply. "Mr Whyte, I am Septimus."

If Geord noticed that he did not introduce himself with his title, he did not remark upon that respect. Instead he shouldered himself up to rest straight-backed against the wall, cushioned by a pillow behind him. He looked wary.

"I'm not yet so addled that I don't recognise you, my lord," he replied tersely.

There was anger in the man's tone, but Septimus did not rise to it. He merely remained silent as Geord regarded him uneasily.

"I know why you've come, anyway," muttered Geord, looking away from the prince then. There was a small tremor in the hand that lay on the sheets before him. Meeting the prince's gaze bravely, Geord's voice was barely above a whisper when he next spoke. "Emmeline." The one word seemed to convey everything that worried him; the fear that plagued him over his daughter's recently admitted affections.

Septimus nodded slowly. Seeing the man now, he found himself worrying for Emmeline's state of emotions. He looked so ill, so old. At least this visit might ease some of her worry. He took a deep breath, unused to the discomfort of the situation he now found himself in.

"I am well aware that you do not approve of my... my intentions, Mr Whyte." He kept his voice respectful, mindful of Emmeline's devotion to the old man.

Surprise again in the old man's face, this time in reaction to Septimus's calm words. Then his face twisted. "That's not all I don't approve of, my lord."

Well, of course. Septimus blinked steadily. "Quite," he replied evenly.

"'Quite'?" repeated Geord. "That's all you have to say?"

Septimus moved to sit in the chair set at the end of the bed. He crossed one long leg over the other and shook his head slowly. "I did not come to deny my past nor win your trust, Mr Whyte. Both could be considered insurmountable feats."

Geord snorted.

"But I will be frank, Mr Whyte." He leaned closer, hands resting on his knees. "Emmeline holds a great deal by your opinion. Your disapproval makes her unhappy." His words were clumsy, unpractised. "I... I do not like to place that upon her."

"So you've come to remove my disapproval? What are you going to do, kill me?" Geord, backed as far against the wall as possible, was glaring at the prince but a little fear slipped through in his shaky words.

"No," Septimus assured him testily, very aware of his irritation rising. "I only wish to speak. I may not have your trust, but I would be grateful for the benefit of your doubt." He softened his tone, thinking of Emmeline. Of the old man's clear protection of her, the worry that the fool Dall had placed there. "I will not harm your daughter, Mr Whyte. I swear it."

The look Geord gave him was one of disbelief, and Septimus could only hope he heard the sincerity in his tone. But the hope was quickly dashed with his next words.

"I don't know what you're playing at with my daughter," Geord said carefully, "But I won't condone it. I don't trust you." A new force entered his words as he leaned forward. "Answer me something, my lord. How many years since Lady Una went missing?"

Una? Septimus frowned at the sudden change of topic. He answered anyway. "Seventeen. Seventeen years."

Geord nodded as if he had proved his point. "And no-one's seen her. No-one knows if she's alive or dead. My wife..." he paused, took a deep breath. "Emmeline's mother... She was Lady Una's handmaiden. She used to tell me how close the two of you were." Face twisting, Geord met the prince's gaze accusingly. "Seventeen years she's been gone, my lord. Did you keep her safe?"

Standing, Septimus felt his fists clench at his sides. So that was the aversion towards him, the mystery of his sister's disappearance. It made sense now, even if it angered him. "I didn't touch her," he said roughly. "I've spent seventeen years _looking_ for her." Taking a deep breath, he attempted to calm his tone. "I understand your worry, but I will not harm your daughter. However, I will not pretend that Emmeline is safe with me, at least not while my brothers still stand. But I have made that clear to her. She understands it."

"Does she really?" The man's voice was mocking.

Patiently, Septimus moved back towards the chair. He lowered himself into it with a sigh. "Yes. She understands what I will have to do." He fixed the man with a strong gaze. "I will fight, Mr Whyte. It is my birthright, and I will not shy from it." His voice softened slightly then, and he kept the man's gaze. "Emmeline knows that."

There was a brief silence then, as Geord stared at the prince. Then he sighed.

"She trusts you, you know," said Geord stiffly, his voice making it clear he did not share his daughter's confidence. "She really does. And she's not one to give her trust easy, is my Em."

"She is an astute woman," agreed Septimus quietly.

Geord regarded him silently for a moment, then shook his head as if defeated. "And stubborn, too."

Remembering his own words from last night, Septimus could not help but concur. A small smile curled his lips. "Yes. Stubborn, too."

Holding back a smile of his own, Geord snorted. His breath caught in his throat, however, and he began coughing harshly, the sound pained and guttural. Septimus stood to help but he waved him away. When the coughing had abated, there was a frown between Geord's brows as he regarded the prince again. He turned his head to the window. The shutters were drawn across it but he stared intently as if he was focusing on something happening outside. Finally, he spoke, his voice a little raspy.

"Neal said you found her last night. Thank you for that."

Septimus nodded curtly. Geord continued to stare away from him at the drawn shutters.

"You didn't have to come here, my lord."

Septimus thought of Emmeline, of the brief worry in her face when she mentioned her father. "I think I did."

Geord Whyte turned to Septimus then, nothing more in his face than a jaded sadness and regret. "You really care for her."

Septimus was unsure if the man was asking a question, but he answered it nonetheless. "I do, Mr Whyte."

Another sigh. Geord shook his head, ran a hand over his chin. "I'm an old man, my lord." He coughed slightly. "An old man and a sick man, despite whatever Em puts in her mixtures." His voice became tender as he spoke of his daughter, and he looked entreatingly to Septimus. "I want her to be happy. She thinks you can give her that."

"I will try," promised Septimus.

"And she knows her own mind." His voice was tired. "Allow her that."

How could he not? "Always."

"But for me, keep her safe." He coughed again, then cleared his throat with some difficulty. Meeting the prince's gaze again, his voice was wry. "Or I'll come back to haunt you."

Septimus, meeting the tired eyes of Emmeline's father, thought then that maybe he had enough ghosts of his own making. He nodded seriously. "I swear, by the throne of Stormhold, I will keep her safe for as long as she lets me."

Satisfied, Geord Whyte dropped back into his pillows. His eyelids fluttered and he gave a quick yawn. "Thank you. Consider yourself a beneficiary of my doubt. Now let me sleep, my lord."

With another nod, Septimus stood to leave. Emmeline would be pleased. The thought made him smile as he closed the door softly behind him. Neal jumped up from his perch on the top stair and gave an awkward bow.

"Shall I fetch Em now, my lord?" he asked quickly. "She wanted to know when Geord woke up but he told me not to get her until he'd had time to think."

Septimus put a hand on the boy's shoulder and steered him back to the door. "I'll find her. You stay here."

Taking two steps at a time, Septimus hurried down the stairs and made his way to the palace gardens. He hoped that the removal of her father's disapproval might ease her worry in this difficult time. He resolved to find her as quickly as he could with the news of her father's awakening. Lengthening his strides, he had barely passed the courtyard when he heard sudden movement behind him. A snide, familiar voice demanded his attention.

"Looking for this, brother? I told you I would find out where you were going."

Turning on his heel and drawing his sword in one practised movement, Septimus was utterly unprepared for the scene that faced him.

Secundus stood before him, one hand over Emmeline's mouth and the other holding a sword to her neck. Septimus' stomach jolted as he recognised the sword as the one he'd presented her with. Emmeline's eyes were wide and frightened, the pupils darting wildly as if trying to convey a silent message to him. He dragged his eyes from her to meet the gleeful face of his elder brother.

"Who is she, then, this girl who draws your sword as her own?"

Anger and loathing jostled for control in Septimus but he knew he had to stay calm. A reaction was what Secundus wanted. He felt Emmeline's eyes on him but would not look, could not look, and give away all he felt for her in one tortured gaze. He could not let Secundus see how much she meant to him.

"Leave her," Septimus commanded with a stronger voice than he'd thought possible. His eyes flickered to the point of the sword resting against Emmeline's pale skin, skin he'd touched only hours before, and sworn to protect. He cursed internally, trying not to let his fear show. Hand tightening around the pommel of his sword, Septimus glared at his brother, who merely continued to smirk. "Leave her."

"Leave her?" repeated Secundus. "Why, I don't think I will. I'm having far too much fun as it is..."

Septimus took a step closer, raising his sword, but Secundus simply stepped back, his sword arm moving jerkily and eliciting a wince from Emmeline. "Drop it," snapped Secundus, his demeanour rapidly changing. "Or I'll cut my fun short just to spite you."

Gritting his teeth, Septimus could see no other option but to obey. Wordlessly, he lowered his sword to the ground. Smiling nastily, Secundus nodded and made sure his younger brother saw how his eyes roved over Emmeline's body, lingering over her heaving chest. Secundus slowly lowered his mouth to her ear, his eyes fixed on Septimus as he spoke to Emmeline.

"I'm going to remove my hand now," he said softly, almost sweetly. "Do promise not to scream, my dear."

As the hand was removed from her mouth, Emmeline choked back a sob and her eyes, bright with unshed tears, blinked pleadingly at Septimus. He saw the apology in her eyes and hated himself for it. As if it was her fault. He should have seen this coming, should have never let her out of his sight. Only Secundus' gloating pulled him away from her gaze.

"... I was simply taking a stroll through the gardens when I stumbled upon this lovely young lady. I noticed she was wearing a sword and my interest was piqued. It wasn't until I got closer that I realised what a very... _interesting_ sword it was for her to have in her possession." His smirk became sly, filled with malice. "And you berated me on my use of the servant girls, Septimus... At least I don't keep mine as _pets_."

Septimus almost winced as he saw Emmeline's reaction to Secundus' phrasing of their relationship. Like there were any similarities between what Secundus did with those teenage girls and what Septimus felt for Emmeline.

"Leave her," Septimus repeated, not wanting to give his brother the satisfaction of arguing against his accusations. His mouth felt dry and he could hear his own heartbeat pounding loud in his ears. _Stay calm_, he told himself. _Stay calm and think clearly._

Making sure his brother was watching, Secundus moved a strand of her dark hair from Emmeline's face, tucking it deftly behind her ear. Septimus watched her shudder as he did so. "She is pretty, though, I'll give you that," said Secundus, ignoring Septimus' order. "And not too bad with a sword. Did you teach her yourself? That might explain why she was unable to best me."

Ignoring the taunts, Septimus did not take his eyes from his brother's free hand, currently lingering at Emmeline's neck. Noticing the direction of his gaze, Secundus moved his hand in gentle strokes across the pale skin. Emmeline turned her head away but he grabbed for her chin, forcing her back.

"You shy from my hand but welcome his?" He laughed, looked back to his brother. "Well, I can compliment her looks but her taste escapes me. How can she stand hands upon her that are as bloody as yours, brother? Or..." A grin lit up Secundus' face but it was more dangerous than handsome. "Does she know of the blood?"

Grasping Emmeline's chin again, he twisted her face to meet his gaze. Septimus could not help but feel a sudden burst of pride as her tears remained unshed, and her body stayed tense and alert. But his pride was overcome with shame and anger as he realised where Secundus was going with this line of conversation. "Do you speak of family, much, girl? Septimus must have plenty to share." Without waiting for a reply, he glanced back to his brother.

Septimus stood motionless as Secundus grinned at him. Attempting to detach from the emotion of the situation, his sharp eyes noticed how the man's grip had relaxed on the sword, too caught up in his gloating. He saw Emmeline's posture stiffen with purpose, something that was totally lost on Secundus. But Septimus, who had grown to know the nuances of her body so well through their spars, recognised her tensing as a prelude to an attack. His heart almost stopped. _No, Emmeline..._

"Shall we see if she has a strong stomach, Septimus, to go with her strong will?" baited Secundus. "Shall I tell her of Quintus, and the axe you put in his skull as he slept? Shall I tell her about the lamp oil in Sextus' quarters, how you threw in the match and locked the doors?" He looked down at Emmeline, whose eyes were closed. He smirked to see it.

"Quartus was mine, and I'll admit that." His voice was light as he continued, bordering on conversational. He glanced back up to Septimus. "But I was merciful compared to you, brother." Looking back to Emmeline, he put a hand under her chin to lift her gaze. "It was the ice room I locked him in. He froze. They say that's like going to sleep, because your body just shuts down... Why, I almost feel like a _saint_ beside you, Septimus. I gave our brother a merciful death, a peaceful one... Not like burning to death, feeling your skin on fire, feeling it peel and burn, feeling your own flesh shatter like glass and that unbearable _heat—_"

On this last word, Septimus saw Emmeline's hand move and roared "_No_!" as he realised her intention. Her palm grasped around the sword blade and forced it away from her neck, pain lancing across her face as she did so. Turning, she lifted her knee, hard, into Secundus' groin and quickly ducked, pulling herself away from his grip.

Septimus reached Secundus a split second after, by which time his elder brother had recovered himself enough to raise his sword toward Emmeline, fallen on the cold stone ground and clutching her injured hand.

"No!" Septimus shouted again, forcing the man's hand backward with all the strength he could muster. Secundus stumbled and Septimus tore the sword from his grip, to aim it at his elder brother's chest. Panting, he stood between Emmeline and Secundus, the former breathing heavily from the ground behind him and the latter glaring hatefully at him over the sword blade he was now faced with.

"Go, Secundus," he said tautly, just barely managing to restrain himself from running the man through. "Go before I change my mind."

Still sneering, Secundus took a few steps back. Septimus watched him warily. "Your pet has made you weak, little brother. A true son of Stormhold would not hesitate. I'll leave you for now, but only because I know how easy it will be to destroy you." His eyes flickered back to Emmeline, behind Septimus, before he turned on his heel and left.

As soon as he was gone, Septimus turned to Emmeline. He regarded her silently for a moment, unsure if his relief should temper out his anger. Then meeting her blue eyes, he felt nothing but concern. He went to her and knelt, dropping the sword at his feet as he took her injured hand in both of his.

"That was foolish, Emmeline," he said gently. She did not respond. He tried to meet her gaze before he realised she was crying. "Emmeline..." Pulling her against his chest, he moved one hand up to clutch at her hair, keeping her close to him. She did not resist, her body shaking as she sobbed quietly into his shirt. He let her cry, merely holding her until the weeping had subsided and it had softened to choked whimpers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered finally, when she felt strong enough to speak. "I didn't even hear him coming... He disarmed me before I'd even..."

Septimus pulled her back into his chest, his arms tight around her shoulders. "No, Emmeline. You did well. I should have known better. I'm sorry." He lifted her head enough for him to see the redness at her neck, the fine beads of blood. He cursed quietly and sighed, taking her hand and turning it to see the incision she'd allowed herself to acquire.

"Septimus?" Her voice was quiet, but he kept his gaze on her hand. "Was it true?" Septimus looked up at her uncertain question. "The things... The things he said about your brothers. Was that how it happened?"

The Prince searched her eyes but did not look away. "Yes," he answered simply.

Emmeline, to her credit, did not drop her gaze. "Oh," she said.

There was a few moments of silence. Septimus took a handkerchief from his jerkin and laid it across her hand, tying it as securely as he dared. Emmeline rested her head against his shoulder.

"My father is sick again."

"I know. But he's awake now," Septimus informed her. "I've spoken to him."

A frown creased Emmeline's brow when she turned her head to him, eyes full of questions. Relief was clear in her expression too, but he could see she was trying to figure out what to ask first.

"Come on," said Septimus, getting to his feet. "I'm sure he'll want to tell you himself." He picked up the sword and slipped it into her scabbard before helping her stand. He took in her dishevelled state and shook his head. "Although I'm sure he'll have something to say about my apparent inability to keep you out of trouble."

He saw Emmeline's lips curve in a small smile at that, and he stepped forward to press a gentle kiss to her temple, moving her hair out of her face as he did so. "I'm sorry, Emmeline."

She regarded him silently for a moment, her blue eyes on his dark green. He noted the swollen bags under her eyes, red with shed tears, and he vowed silently to avenge each individual tear spilt on Secundus' behalf. But he knew that Emmeline was not looking for fierce proclamations of revenge, or bloody vengeance to be wreaked on her account, so he merely took her uninjured hand and walked her back to the stables.

Her hand felt so small in his, and he found himself thinking back on what he'd promised her father — to keep her safe. Idly, he found himself wondering if would ever actually be able to keep his promise.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _Bad author! Bad author! *slaps wrist and has the good grace to look ashamed*_

_First of all, many, many apologies for the ridiculous update time. I'm hopeless, I know. But lookee here! A big bumper chapter full of suspense and a bit of fluff-ish stuff thrown in for good measure. I'm trying to keep up with fanfiction but if I'm sidetracked again hopefully this'll tide you over._

_The demises of the brothers are what I could gather from the movie — Quartus appears as icy and frozen and Sextus is burnt. So I took a few liberties with that. Except Quintus, who has an axe sticking out of his skull and nightclothes on so I surmised from that that someone had put an axe in his head when he was sleeping. Probably Septimus._

_Thanks so much to everyone who's continued to alert, favourite and review despite my lack of updates. It means the world. I think I've thanked most of the signed reviews personally through PMs, but if you were an anonymous review or woefully overlooked then please accept my heartfelt thanks for sharing a few words with me._


End file.
